Little Fang
by Sophia Nox
Summary: *AU* story about an unlikely friendship/romance that might bring Rivendell and Moria just a little bit closer together. Basically, this story is about cultural exchange, I think. But who knows? Read the introduction for... ehm... further introduction.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

Welcome folks, to this story about Azog the Defiler! Please note that the story is *AU* which – in this case – means that it does not follow the storylines of the canonical J.R.R. Tolkien tales NOR the Hobbit movie narrative. My story is an exploration of character rather than a 'historically correct' narrative that would fit perfectly into the Tolkien universe. To be honest, this is a most unlikely story of a most unlikely friendship/romance (don't say I haven't warned you!). But if you are up for such a ride, then I would say you have come to the right place :) The story is rated M by principle (you can read about this in my profile), and there will be plenty of graphic violence, Orcish sex and foul language. I promise!

On the characters:

I do not own any of the canonical Tolkien characters of the story, such as Elrond, Bolg and Azog himself, nor any of the canonical events that my story may refer to. The looks and personalities of Azog and Bolg are based on the characters in the Hobbit movie. Many of the other characters, such as Kasaksma, Sim and Kahrn, are, however, my own inventions, but I hold no copyright over them, as I believe they have risen from the depths of some common human subconscious.

On the language:

I use the Orcish language quite extensively throughout my story. Most of it is based on the phrasebook and dictionary of AngelFire (there should have been a link to the phrasebook here, but that is apparently impossible to make, so you will just have to google it).

I have made some additions of my own, however, to make the language more comprehensive. As far as I know, none of it – or only very little of it – is canonical. For those of you who are not native Orcish speakers, I have included translations of the words and sentences in the bottom of each chapter :)

Well, I think that was all. If you have any comments or questions, please feel free to write to me.

And now: Let the story begin!


	2. The Prisoner

**1.** **The Prisoner**

Funny, how little you realise what impact your small choices may have on the future. When you're in the heat of the moment, you just go with the flow, letting every single choice reveal itself to you and following your gut. That was how I won battle after battle; that was how I built a kingdom of stone and steel, and how I raised a son to be a famed warrior and my worthy heir. Step by step, you toil through life, and only by looking back, you realise how your choices have affected your future options and how – sometimes – fate has lent you a helping hand.

This story, you might say, is the story of small choices and their history-changing consequences. As such, I don't even know where I should start telling it. I might begin at the dream that had been haunting me for weeks. Prophetic, you might call it. Unsettling and ominous, I called it at the time, not knowing its true meaning. Mostly, the dream would start with a hunting party in the dense undergrowth of a lush forest. In waking, I never knew which forest it was, but in the dream it always seemed familiar. We were a band of five Orcs chasing a golden stag with antlers as wide as the back of a mountain troll. Then, everything would grow still and I would find myself alone in the thicket, all my comrades and the stag gone. Suddenly, something would hit my chest, and as I would look down in surprise I would recognise a poisonous Elven arrow. I would immediately know that I was going to die, but at the same time, being a trained warrior, I would wonder at the shape of the weapon that was about to kill me. It was slender and strong, but it was shorter than an ordinary Elven arrow, and it seemed to sing as it found its way to the core of my heart. But in every dream, instead of killing me, the arrow would grow into a pale and thorny branch with silver leaves and snow-white flowers…

On the other hand, I might start relating this story from that fateful, but rather un-romantic autumn morning when I got out of bed, my forehead sweaty from my recurring dream, my limbs cold to the bone and my mind being little conscious of the turn the big wheel of my life was about to make on that very day.

The fires in the two braziers had gone out, and the tentative light of dawn, visible through the only window of the bed-chamber, was veiled by the late autumn mists rising from the rocky mountainsides. Only the faint glow of an ember in the bottom of one of the braziers indicated that there was still hope for some light and heat in this gods-forsaken chamber. I cleared the ash from around the ember, piled some dry twigs onto it and blew cautiously until the fire caught on. As the flames rose, I fed them more wood, relishing in the beginning warmth.

The water in the metal jug was as cold as the air, and I cursed loudly as I rubbed the soaked washing cloth across my stiff limbs. Usually, my bed-warmer was responsible for keeping the fires going, as well as bringing in hot water and, of course, keeping my bed warm and snug. But during the last couple of months, she had grown so burdensome that I had been forced to evict her. Not that she had been a bad bed-warmer, far from it – she had even been pretty and relatively cleanly. Furthermore, she had been an over-average whore, but she had gained this fancy of trying to seduce me into making her my consort. She had thought herself irreplaceable, and she had started to boast about her position to all who would listen. She was lucky; she got away with an eviction and a good public flogging. That was hopefully a lesson not just to her, but to all the other women of my court who aspired to get into my bed. Not that I dislike women generally – not at all! – but I hadn't had a consort since the mother of my now adult son. Being the consort of the king of Moria is a rare honour you have to earn. And alas, now I didn't even have a bed-warmer.

I looked up into the polished brazen mirror. What looked back at me was a warrior in his best years, covered by old battle scars, new bruises and goose bumps. These freezing morning ordeals would chase life out of me more quickly than the renewed strife with the Eldar, I thought ruefully. I let the palm of my hand slip from my neck over my shoulder and down my chest. Not an inch of fat, though I was surely not growing younger; only a mountain of firm muscles and hard tendons under a thick layer of hairless white skin. No wonder one of my names among my enemies was _The Pale Orc_. I turned to find my loincloth, belt and boots in whatever corner I had thrown them last night.

"Let another one of my small everyday battles begin," I sighed, picking up my clothes.

Since Thorin Oakenshield – may his name and the names of all his kin be cursed for all eternity! – took off my strong left hand, life had not been quite the same; and the steel hook ending in a couple of claws now protruding from the stump did not always make things easier.

While I struggled with my belt, I reviewed the tasks of the coming day. There was the lashing of two deserters, the public de-gutting of their general, the inspection of the dungeons, the treasury and the armoury and last but not least the evaluation of the gains and losses of yesterday's battle. A tight schedule, but not impossible to overcome. If it wasn't for the inevitable bragging and story-telling of the war-leaders and captains of my court trying their best to impress me and thus make me lavish them with more riches, the day would even promise to be delightful, I mused.

A loud and decisive knock on the door tore me out of my chain of thoughts.

"Father?" Bolg's voice carried a trace of urgency I hadn't heard since the day Thráin's damned Dwarves had suddenly stood at our gates.

I opened the door and glared at my son with a look that asked for a very quick explanation.

"There's trouble in the dungeons, sire," he panted, "You have to come quickly. It's the Elf."

Yesterday's clash was just the latest addition to a prolonged strife between us, the Orcs of Moria, and the Eldar of Rivendell – or the _Folk of the Fissure_ as my people are teasingly calling them – which has lasted almost as long as we have been occupying these lands. I dare say that the Dwarves living in these caverns before us must have had the same conflicts with the Eldar; they are a most cantankerous lot. To sum things up, the whole conflict is about the highland area between the gates of Moria and the rocky borders of Rivendell. To the west, this territory is boarded by the river Bruinen – or the _Bronn_ as we call it in Orcish – and to the east, the relentless Misty Mountains run all the way to Rivendell and indeed beyond, up to Angmar. These fields, which we call _Toknahai_ , No-Man's-Land, may seem as a narrow strip of land on a map, but in truth they are vast and bountiful grassland with sparse thickets of low trees and shrubs, still lakes and clear streams – ideal for hunting and pasture. Now, having the Orcs of Gundabad pressing in on one side and Moria on the other, Rivendell understandably wants to keep the No-Man's-Land Orc-free.

For the last ten years or so, there has been what, for want of a better word, we might call a truce between Moria and Rivendell. We have used the No-Man's-Land as our hunting grounds, but haven't made attempts to annex it, and they have used it as thoroughfare to Dunland and Lórien without crossing our paths. However, the increased number of raids of the Orcs of Mordor along the Great River and the Isen during last summer seems to have unsettled this delicate balance, and Rivendell is determined to win more space.

So it came to pass that a week ago, a band of young Elves shot and killed two of our best scouts just on the other side of Hollin, ignorant as the Eldar are, probably believing our men to be from Mordor. Retaliation was inevitable. We confronted a band of their warriors escorting a trader's caravan yesterday and it came to a short but bloody battle. They were defenceless in the open grassland, and our Wargs were quick to finish them off. Most of them died in the field, a few escaped and one – a young lad from the caravan – was caught.

Now, this one prisoner seemed to give some trouble. Bolg filled me in on the situation as we stomped through the stone corridors to the dungeons.

"He was brought in right after the battle, sire," my son related, "but he said that he wanted to talk to you and you only. We gave him a good beating for his impertinence, but when the jailer tore off his clothes to make him taste the whip, he turned out to be a _she_ – a female! She's still asking for you, sire, but she's very week. And all the jailers have started to draw lots on who should be the first to rape her…"

At this point, we had turned the corner to the heavy iron gates of the dungeons, and word spread like wildfire that the king of Moria had arrived. By the time I reached the cell of the Elf, the jailers were bowing their heads humbly and pointing me to the prisoner with an apologetic smirk on their faces. I would have to deal with them later.

The Rivendell Elf was hanging by her wrists from the vault of the cell, her feet barely touching the floor. The cord around her wrists had made deep tears in her skin, and blood was oozing down her arms. She had clearly been fighting for her freedom. Her naked body was covered in black and blue bruises, and a couple of bloody gashes on her sides showed where she had been hit, cut and kicked by the jailers. Long black strands of hair covered her face, and her head was hanging limply against her chest. She was barely breathing.

"Cut her down," I ordered dryly.

She made a bump as her lifeless body hit the stone floor. I knelt down beside the lump of bloody flesh and soiled hair.

"We call her _Kasaksma_ … because of the way she was fighting back when she was captured," the jailer said with an insecure grin, trying to lift the tension of the situation, "My nephew lost three teeth and half an ear to her."

I cast him a glance that would have sent a Balrog straight back into its bottomless pit. I grabbed the hair of the Elf and lifted her head off the floor. Her eyes were closed, but her broken lips were moving slightly. I bent closer to hear the words, defying the mixed stench of Elf and dungeon.

"Defiler…" she whispered in the Common Tongue, "I must talk… to The.. Defiler…"

"I am called The Defiler," I said, "Who asks?" But there was no answer.

I let her head fall back onto the floor and wiped my hand on my loincloth as I stood up. As I walked out of the cell, a sudden irresistible idea hit me. There was no way out, I had to act on it and see where it would take me.

"Bring her to my quarters," I said, turning to the head jailer. The man bowed so deep, I thought his forehead would brush the floor.

As an afterthought, I added: "And clean her up."


	3. The Hostage

**2\. The Hostage**

The flogging of the two deserters had been an undivided success, the de-gutting of the general even more so. If life as a warrior and a king has taught me anything at all, it's this: that in troubled times, a display of blood is the only thing that will make your people sleep tightly at night. Later during the day, my visits to the armoury and the treasure chambers had been equally uplifting. In spite of the long period of peace with the Eldar as well as the Dwarves, our weapons were perpetually and devotedly maintained, and our smiths had – during the last six months – developed some new shapes that, despite their crude looks, were designed to be effective against an Elven cavalry. There were still plenty of gold from the hoard of the old Dwarf lords, and if we spent it wisely, they would buy us good craftsmen from Gundabad and slaves aplenty from the Goblins.

The evaluation of yesterday's battle had been a quick one. We had won an undisputed victory, and both captains and generals were optimistic about future victories. I decided not to show them my doubts at the time being. If events would develop along these lines, we would soon find ourselves waging war on two fronts – hard pressed by Rivendell from the west and from the bands of raiding Mordor Orcs from the east. Gundabad might send us some help, but would they want to? The king of Gundabad may be my cousin, but he was a shrewd and self-sufficient man. Would it be in his interest to lend a helping hand after all these years of separation?

"Ah well, maybe I'm just growing old," I murmured to myself as I ascended the steep stone steps to my bed-chamber followed by a slave.

It was way past bedtime, even for a king. In a few hours, the sun would rise, heralding the start of yet another busy day. I opened the door of the chamber and told my attendant to wait outside. If the braziers needed more wood, I could just as well send him for some right away. I was determined not to let the fires die down once again.

As I've thought, the fires were quite low spreading a golden glow throughout the room. Tables and benches cast ghostly shadows across the floor that seemed to be alive with every moving flame. I glanced around and gave an audible gasp of surprise when I discovered the lonely figure sitting on a bench in the darkest corner of the chamber, looking stiffly at me. The events of the day had made me forget my lonely Elven prisoner whom I had ordered the jailers to bring to my quarters. How long had she been sitting here alone, I wondered.

I looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Then, I moved closer to inspect her. She was clad in a sheet of dirty cloth, her hair dishevelled and her eyes black and wild like those of a trapped beast, but her small hands were resting quietly in her lap. The jailers hadn't made a very good job of cleaning her up, and she still smelled of the filth of the dungeons. But at least she was alive and conscious. I called to my attendant to bring a fresh jug of hot water, and I took one of my own small bottles of wound-healing ointments off the shelves. All the while she watched me with wide eyes – partly frightened, partly defiant – and without making a sound.

I stripped her of her makeshift clothes and sent my attendant away with them. I sighed resignedly as I inspected her naked body. For the first time, she lowered her gaze and tried to cover as much of herself with her hands as possible. No wonder the jailers had mistaken her for a lad. She was small and slender, but with muscular arms and legs. As far as I could see, she was shorter than the average Eldar, but her features were unmistakably Elvish. Her breasts were small and round, her hips narrow – hardly the childbearing sort of female; actually, she was rather hideous to behold, all skin and bones.

Nevertheless, I set about the work to clean her up, rubbing dirt and clotted blood from her skin with a cloth. She made no resistance, letting her arms and legs flop down lifelessly as I let go of them.

"Who are you?" I asked in the Common Tongue. As far as I knew, none of the Elves mastered the Orcish language. She just looked at me sceptically, but didn't reply.

Then, I dressed her wounds and sores with my ointment. Its harsh smell made her wrinkle her nose, but throughout the whole cleaning, she didn't make a sound.

"Why did you want to see me?" Still no reply. Instead, she averted her eyes and started to stare straight ahead, her face assuming an air of cool superiority and pride so characteristic of her kind.

I finished by wrapping her in a goat-wool blanket and stood back to look at the results of my work, wondering if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life by bringing her here. Should I have let the jailers have their way with her, and then let her perish in the dungeons? Was she waiting for me to go to sleep and then slit my throat in the dark? The last thought made me smile. She was so week she was barely able to sit by herself, let alone to lift a weapon. Perhaps she was deaf and didn't hear my questions? Maybe she was a half-wit? I dismissed these questions as quickly as they rose. Silently, she had been following my every move attentively, and she had looked into my eyes when I had talked to her. She was neither deaf nor a half-wit. In fact, she must be exceedingly attentive and intelligent – as well as stubborn and defiant. Yes, I agreed with myself with a smile, her stubbornness and defiance was what had been keeping her alive so far, and it was her stubbornness and defiance that had captured my fancy to start with. I would learn her secrets soon enough, but for now, I would let her keep her mysteries.

I piled more wood on the braziers and went to my bed, leaving her alone on the bench. As I slipped underneath the cold covers, she was still staring straight ahead into thin air. Maybe she was someone important, I thought as I finally closed my eyes. In that case, I had a precious hostage in my grasp – I just had to figure out how to use her…

A swift cold gust from the window woke me to the half-light of early dawn. I rubbed my eyes and rose slowly, blinking into the shadows of the room. Suddenly, I remembered that I wasn't alone in the chamber, and my eyes sought out the figure in the far corner. As I focused my gaze, it occurred to me that the Elf was still sitting up straight on the bench with the woollen blanket wrapped around her shoulders and with her gaze trailing away into thin air. She must have been sitting like that, immobile, throughout the whole night. I rose, washed and dressed as usual, but I could feel her uncanny vigil slowly getting on my nerves, and I decided to quit the chamber as soon as possible. I gave the sleeping slave outside my door a hard nudge with the tip of my boot and told him to lock the door and keep a regular eye on the prisoner inside.

Halfway down the stairs, however, a thought made me turn and walk back to my chamber. I stood still for a moment, looking at the female with my attendant peering fearfully at her from behind my back. Then, I cleared my throat.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, realising in the very instant that I had no idea what foods the Elves ate. Was it something green? Lettuce, maybe? Or was it nuts and berries? My memory sought back to the natural history lessons of my boyhood, but all I could remember were the harsh beatings of old blind Morda when he had deemed that I hadn't studied hard enough.

Kasaksma – or whatever she was called – didn't answer me, but then again, I didn't expect her to.

"Bring her some food, and be quick about it," I growled at the dumbfounded slave and exited quickly, slamming the door behind me.

When I returned to my bed-chamber late that night, the female was lying on the bench fast asleep. A tin platter with assorted berries and dried fruits and a goblet of fresh water was laid out on a small table next to her, but none of the food had been touched. I made a tentative move to touch one of her hands hanging down. Her slim fingers were cold as stone. One of her feet was sticking out from underneath her blanket, and I gave it a hasty squeeze. It was icy cold, too. She was alive and breathing, but she must have fallen into a heavy sleep from mere exhaustion. I piled more wood on the fires and drew the heavy curtains which had been put up by my attendant during the day, but I knew that they would not be able to keep the cold out for the entire night. I went to bed wondering if she would still be alive the next morning.

I woke up sometime during the middle of the night. Had I been troubled by my recurring dream? I didn't know. All I knew was that in the faint light of the dying embers on the braziers, I glimpsed the Elf sitting in her corner, cautiously nibbling the food on the platter that she had taken onto her lap. Before I realised what I was seeing, however, I went back to sleep.

"So you're Azog. Azog the Defiler."

The voice was strong and smooth like the silks of the Haradrim. I opened my eyes and found myself staring right into the face of the female Elf who was standing at the foot of my bed. I bolted up-right and quickly assessed the situation. The sentence had been a statement rather than a question, and she was inspecting me with a pair of wide-open almond-shaped eyes. She had wrapped the woollen blanket around her body as an improvised robe of sorts and stood with as haughty a bearing as any Eldar royalty.

"I am the king of Moria, yes. And you're not dead yet, I see," I retorted with a superior smirk.

I cast off my covers and stood up. She averted her eyes quickly and turned her back on me. Apparently, my nakedness made her uneasy.

"Why did you want to see me?" I spat out in a hard voice, hastening to take advantage of her temporal insecurity.

There was silence for a moment, and then she said in a low voice, still turned away from me:

"It was my only chance to survive captivity."

Of course. From the frying pan into the fire. It was a bold but rather reckless plan – the plan of an equally brilliant and desperate creature. I congratulated myself on not having misjudged her abilities. But then the next question rose to my mind:

"And what makes you think that I'll spare your miserable life?"

She turned abruptly and looked straight into my face with hard eyes.

"Because I'm Múriel, illegitimate daughter of Elrond, king of Rivendell."

Quickly, I wrapped a sheet around my waist and tried to collect my thoughts. I knew of Elrond's children with his late queen: the twins Elladan and Elrohir and the daughter Arwen, the one whom they called Undómiel. But I had never heard of a Múriel. Was the female lying? Then again: the Eldar were known for being secretive about the excrescences of their non-marital romances.

"I'll rip your lying tongue out and make you eat it, Elven scum!"

She didn't even flinch.

"What was your business in the No-Man's-Land?"

"I was being escorted back to my father's court from Lórien when your bunch of cowardly scoundrels ambushed us."

I stepped up to her and hit her across the face with the back of my hand.

"Don't you dare to speak to me like that in my own halls!"

She peered up at me with a defiant look, a strip of red blood oozing slowly out of her nose.

"If you don't believe me, then send word to my father and ask him," she said in a calm voice, deliberately letting the blood run down her lips and chin without wiping it away, "And who knows? Maybe you'll even receive a handsome ransom. If I'm not hurt."

She was a cheeky bastard, and my hand itched to hit her again. But she did have a point. Once again I praised myself for having followed my gut feeling. If she really was the daughter of the Elven king, and I had left her in the dungeons to be raped, beaten and eventually killed, we would have had the whole army of Rivendell breathing down our necks sooner than later. The mere thought sent shivers down my back, but I was careful not to show my feelings. Instead, I erupted in a harshly cascading laughter that – I noted to my satisfaction – took her by surprise.

"If I ever catch you lying to me, Eldar, I'll cast you to the Wargs to be torn to pieces," I said, collected my clothes under my arm and stomped from the chamber.


	4. The Bed-Warmer

**3\. The Bed-Warmer**

The air still resonated with the sound made by the heavy oak door as it was slammed hard against its frame. I looked around the shadowy room, wondering if I had just gained a small victory or lost everything, including my right to live. Would this deform monster who called himself the king of Moria send a messenger to Rivendell? Or would he call the guards to take me away to certain torture and death? The thing about Orcs was, as far as I knew, that you could never be sure of their choices and the reasoning behind them. Not that I have ever met an Orc, let alone spoken to one. Once, my travel companions had hunted down a small band of raiding Orcs from Mordor at the ford of Ninglor, and I had seen their repulsive bodies covered in gore and black blood. That was before it had been deemed safer to take the open road through the No-Man's-Land than to follow the Anduin up to the pass to Rivendell.

I grew conscious of the blood dripping steadily onto the floor, and I wiped my lips quickly, wincing as my hand pushed against my sore nose. That brute! Nonetheless, I praised myself lucky that I had escaped his anger with a bloody nose. Azog wasn't known as The Defiler for nothing, and it had been a gamble from my part to even place myself under his 'kingly protection'.

In his younger days, the story went, Azog and his men had raided the mountainous territories surrounding Gundabad, pillaging and burning settlements and lonely farms, killing the men, raping the women and youths, and taking the children away to a life of slavery. The official annals said that the northern Orcs now occupying Moria had been refugees, but the truth was possibly a more prosaic one: Azog had simply cast his eyes on the unprotected riches of Moria. He had set out to conquer it, leaving a trail of misery and death in his wake. By the time he had reached the kingdom of Durin, his campaign had gained momentum and his army had been swelled hundred-fold by raggle taggle bands of stray Goblins, exiled Haradrim, mountain trolls and the blood-thirsty wolf-like beasts called Wargs. The small enclave of Dwarves still dwelling in the majestic stone halls of their forefathers didn't stand a chance.

For twenty long years, The Pale Orc had now been maintaining his underground kingdom with a mixture of iron discipline, good diplomatic connections and superior battle skills; and of course with an unmeasurable amount of Dwarf gold which – it was said – he nevertheless spent as sparingly as if he would personally be required to cut out every drop from the bedrock.

There was definitely no trace of royal luxury whatsoever in this chamber that he occupied. I went to the window and cast aside the rough animal-hide curtains. A cold dry breeze hit me full in the face, and the mist-white daylight blinded me temporarily. There was the promise of snow in the air. I gazed out of the window just to see a fall of at least a thousand feet, possibly more, disappearing into the swirling mists of the depths. The abyss was flanked by vertical rocks on both sides, leaving a narrow view to what looked like a flat plateau of rock in the distance. No escape here, unless you counted certain death as a way out, I mused.

The scramble of the key being turned in the door made me spin around, my heart in my throat. Would it be one of Azog's henchmen coming to take me to an unknown fate? Or would it be one of the abominable jailers who would come to drag me away? Fortunately, it was none of these, but the small attendant who had brought me food and water the previous day. He – or she, one could never quite tell with Orcs – peered cautiously through the door with wide grey eyes. When he had made sure that I didn't move from my place at the window, he hastened into the room and threw a bunch of clothes on a bench. He pointed at the heap with a bony forefinger.

"Clothes," he squeaked in poor Common Tongue.

Then, he made to leave as quickly as he had entered.

"Wait!" I said, and he froze in mid-motion, "Where's Azog gone?"

The Orc turned and inspected me with a nervous glance. It was clear that he hadn't understood my question.

"Your master. Where has he gone?" I repeated.

"Ah, Master! I not know," he said, shaking his head.

"When will he be back?"

"I not know," he repeated fearfully, starting to back towards the door.

"Wait!" I said again, taking a step forward, "Where's the loo? Or do you expect me to pee in a corner maybe?"

Immediately, the sullen face of the Orc lit up in a broad smile showing a full set of blackish needle-sharp teeth.

"Pee! I know word!" he exclaimed, "Come!"

Thank the gods, I though as I followed him out of the chamber.

By the time we returned to the kingly chamber, my small attendant was chattering away merrily in a strange mix of Orcish and Common Tongue of which I understood very little. His arms – which seemed way too long and slim for the rest of his stooped body – were gesticulating expressively as if trying to underline the most important points of his speech. I could easily have overpowered the small Orc in the deserted corridors, but trying to find my way out of this underground bastion not knowing whom I would meet on my way would have been folly. On entering into the room, he turned and looked at me with his big round eyes. He must have seen on my face that I didn't have a clue as to what he had been telling me, because he sighed demonstratively and pointed at the washing basin.

"Water to wash," he said, making an effort to make himself understandable.

"Bed to sleep," he continued, pointing at the bed, "I bring more food."

I nodded, signalling that I had understood which he acknowledged with another one of his broad toothy smiles before exiting hastily.

The cold wind had gained in strength during the time I had been gone and was now spitting bunches of small hard snowflakes in through the window. I hurried to draw the curtains shut again and stood shivering for a moment. Then, I washed my face and my hair at the basin – the water was still lukewarm – and inspected the clothes on the bench. There were two shifts of breeches, long-sleeved shirts and tunics made of coarse undyed wool as well as a broad leather belt and a pair of leather boots. It was clear that the clothes had been made for a small Orc, but I still had to roll up the sleeves of the shirt and stuff the wide fabric of the breeches into the boot legs to keep the boots up.

I took a walk around the room to try out the boots; they turned out to be unexpectedly comfortable. The chamber was a simple rectangular room with stone walls and an impressive barrel vault. The air had a scent of the fresh hay which had been strewn on the floor – a welcome difference from the filthy smell of the dungeons. The chamber was sparsely furnished with a large bed, two iron braziers, a couple of coarse oak benches and a huge wooden chest. There was a heap of dry wood for the fires in one corner, and next to the washing basin, there was a shelf containing bottles of ointments and a large mirror of polished brass. I cast a swift glance at myself. I looked hideous with a broken and swollen lip and a huge blackened bruise running down my left temple to my cheekbone. Shivering, I turned my back on the miserable image.

At the opposite wall, there was a long trestle table with heaps of parchments, quills, scrolls of maps and boxes of seals and other small tokens. I scrolled through some of the documents. Except for one in Common Tongue, they were all written in a spindly stile which must be Orcish and thus wholly incomprehensible for me. As far as I could see, they contained unfinished letters, accounts as well as hastily scribbled notes on various subjects, some of which were accompanied by small sketch drawings. The one in Common Tongue was a follow-up on some trade agreement with the Haradrim of South Gondor. Apparently, unlike most kings, this one took great pains in writing his own letters.

Soon, my attendant returned with a fresh jug of drinking water and a whole bowl of apples, dried berries and nuts. The apples were small and sour, but the berries were sweet and juicy. I learned that his name was Kahrn, but when I asked him again about Azog, he just shook his head. I was left to my own company for the rest of the day. I was still alone when the sun set. I peered out through the curtains. The sky had the colour of lead, almost black. The blizzard had increased, whirling snowflakes around in the depths of the dark abyss under the window. In the distance, loud yelps and howls competed with the wail of the wind. I knew they were not coming from wolves, but from Wargs. A shiver ran down my spine, and I turned quickly back into the room. Listening at the door, I heard nothing but silence. Not a soul was moving outside.

I put some more wood on the braziers to keep the fires going and sat down on a bench to await Azog's return. He had to come back soon, right? Unexpectedly, the fear of doubt took hold of me. What if I would be left here to pine away all alone? What if I would never again see the open sky or feel green grass under my feet? What if I would never again see a living being? The nagging thoughts kept me up all night, but when morning came, I was still alone. My only company the next day was Kahrn who brought fresh food and hot water for washing and escorted me to the loo. I was too tired to bother him, and he left me without a word, but with a side-ways look filled with pity.

When night fell, I was so exhausted I could have slept standing on my feet. I sat down on the edge of the large bed and let a hand run across the rough woollen covers and the longhaired fleece of a spotted mountain goat covering them. The fleece felt soft, snug and irresistibly inviting. I threw off my tunic, breeches and boots, keeping only the inner shift as a nightgown, and crawled underneath the covers, wondering if the bed was filled with lice and flees. From what I had been taught, Orcs were a dirty and vermin-filled lot. These sheets, however, had a clean, fresh and somewhat spicy smell of mountain thyme that made me relax and fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillows.

I was awakened by someone clearing his throat. As I opened my eyes, I saw Azog sitting on a bench next to the bed with crossed arms. The faint glow from the embers was reflected in his small hard eyes as he studied me unblinkingly. I just stared back at him, thinking that I had been a fool to ever wish for his return.

"This blizzard," he said, finally breaking the silence, "It's really bad timing. If I dispatch a messenger to Rivendell now, I'll never get him back this side of winter."

So, he would wait to negotiate my exchange till the snow had melted? Would I really be trapped in Moria indefinitely? If only my father knew where I had been taken, he might send out warriors to recover me… I didn't know what to answer. The notion seemed to make The Pale Orc as annoyed as it made me anxious.

"Ah well," Azog sighed and rubbed the palm of his right hand against his knee, "You can just as well do some good while you're here."

Abruptly, he stood up, kicked off his boots and loosened his belt, letting his sparse clothing fall to the floor. I felt my throat and my whole chest constrict, leaving me speechless. This was it. What I had been fearing all along was about to happen. He would take me by force, and I had no chance to fight him off. I prayed to the gods that I would die before he could do me too much harm. Quickly, I turned my back on him and closed my eyes tightly. He slipped under the covers and gave me a firm push with his shoulder.

"Move over, bed-warmer" he said dryly, tucking himself in, "Bloody Eldar, you think you own the whole world!"

He murmured a few more curses in Orcish and turned his back on me. I sidled to the far edge of the bed and stared into thin air, my breath still caught in my chest. The shock would surely keep me from getting more sleep that night.


	5. The Blizzard

**4\. The Blizzard**

"Mwahahahahaha!"

Sim's deep laughter rung out through the hall and echoed off the bare walls, making the _snagaz_ _ **[1]**_ lurking in the corners look up nervously. Whenever a fit like this caught him, his entire body shook with movement – and that was a whole lot of body. Sim was as tall as me and as wide across his chest and shoulders, but his fat belly was the size of a huge ale barrel and his legs and arms as sturdy as oaken trunks.

"No!" he added firmly and poured another small beaker of _ambor_ _ **[2]**_ for both of us.

I didn't touch my drink, but looked at the big warrior with piercing eyes. I knew Sim well enough to know that when his voice carried the most uncompromising sound, that was when the discussion was really just beginning. Also, I knew how uncomfortable my silent glaring could make him. He fidgeted with his beaker for a moment, his eyes all over the place. Then, he shot back the liquor and coughed to clear his throat.

"You can't be serious!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, "Tell me you're not serious!"

It was my turn to shake my head.

"She needs to get out," I said matter-of-factly, "or I'm afraid she'll do harm to herself."

Kasaksma, or Múriel as she was called by her own people, had been my prisoner-turned-bed-warmer for a week now. For all this time, we hadn't exchanged a word. She performed her duties of minding the fires and keeping my bed warm with a sullen silence, but she did neither look at me when I was there nor try to communicate with me. Each of us minded our own business. As far as I knew, she spent most of the time sitting at the window and looking resignedly at the blizzard that was still howling outside. Lately, I had grown increasingly concerned that she might simply let herself fall into the snowy void. Then all my efforts to keep her alive and unharmed would have been in vain, and I would have been forced to wave goodbye to a promising Elvish ransom.

"Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" Sim carried on, "You want me to make a fool of myself by babysitting an Eldar witch!"

I sent him a glance as cold as ice. Sim and I had known each other since our early boyhood in Gundabad where we used to chase through the endless underground corridors and explore everything we were not supposed to explore. Later, both of us had been recruited to the mighty Gundabad army, and we had fought shoulder to shoulder in all the major battles against the Elves and the Dwarves. Big as he was, I had never seen a warrior moving as swiftly and elegantly across a battlefield as Sim did. When I decided to take my raiders to Moria, he followed me as my most trusted captain, but soon a leg injury put an end to his active military carrier. Instead, he became the supervisor of the recruits of my new army. For all the years I've known him, Sim had been equally zealous of his subjects and his honour.

"First of all, she's not a witch…" I tried to explain, but the big warrior cut me short.

"Her mere presence would cause havoc among my boys! You know what they say about Elves: that they have the powers of glamour and charm…"

I had been brooding on this plan for a couple of days now, and I wasn't going to give up on it so easily. I had tossed and turned it in my head to find a better solution, but there seemed to be none. In all its simplicity, it was about asking Sim to let the female participate in some of the drilling sessions of the new recruits. There was no better way to keep her under sharp surveillance as well as to keep her busy – unless I wanted to send her back into the dungeons. And obviously, I didn't want to do that.

"Stupid nursery stories," I said, waving my hand dismissively.

Sim looked at me with an unimpressed expression on his face that suggested I was already under her spell. He was smart enough, though, not to say it out loud. Instead, he leaned closer across the table and said in a hushed voice:

"People are whispering in the corners, you know. Even the _snagaz_."

Yes, I knew the rumours, and I also knew that most of them were probably spread by the talkative slave I had employed to wait upon the Elf. What our slaves were whispering about, however, held no interest for me whatsoever. But it seemed to concern Sim who had always had a flair for personal relations. I leaned back and smiled, deciding to play his little game.

"All the more reason to let her out," I said plainly, "It'll show that she's neither dangerous nor mysterious; that she's just a week Elf – a _lulgijak_ _ **[3]**_ like the rest."

Sim sat silent and contemplative for a moment. Then, he said with a smirk, pouring himself another beaker of liquor:

"Maybe she just needs a bit of 'cheering up' – if you get my drift."

I laughed out loud. Sim was like a brother to me, but he was the last one I would ask for advice concerning the 'cheering up' of women. It was a well-known fact that he preferred younglings to females. Mostly, he chose his whores from among the first-year recruits. All of Moria knew that the straightest road to a carrier as a general in the army went through Sim's bed. If he was pleased with your abilities as a whore, he wouldn't spare any cost to make you the greatest warrior alive.

"I'm not a pervert like you," I retorted, lifting my beaker in a toast.

We both downed our drinks in one gulp.

"I'll think about you suggestion," he said as I stood up.

"Do. And be quick about it," I answered, leaving him to his own device.

The halls of the upper levels were hot and crowded. The air was loud with growls and yelps and pungent with the smell of decaying bones and wet fur. The Wargs lifted their heads as I entered their quarters and followed me with curiosity and apprehension in their eyes. I had fetched a bucket of fresh bones and sinews at the kitchens and headed determinately towards the farthest corner of the immense hall, knowing that she preferred the quietness and solitude of her own company to the buzz of her subjects. And quite right, there she lay like a queen, her white fur radiant in the light of the torches.

Bardha[4] lifted her head and started to wag her tail lazily as soon as she saw me. I reached into the bucket and handed her a bloody shoulder blade which she accepted eagerly. She took the bone between her front paws and began to gnaw at it immediately. I put down the bucket in front of her and ran my fingers through the thick harsh fur on her head before sitting down next to her. The wagging of her tail intensified, and a low growl issued from her throat. I knew that it wasn't meant for me, though, but for the bone in her mouth. I sighed and watched her eating for a while, my own stomach starting to rumble with hunger.

"D'you know what bothers me, Bardha?" I said finally.

The big white Warg just chewed on her bone, oblivious to my question.

"This weather," I continued unfazed, "It'll be at least two months before I can send that damned Elf on her way, and I don't like the prospect. I don't like it at all."

Bardha halted her feeding and sniffed my hand in what seemed to me to be a rather demonstrative way.

"Yeah, I know," I sighed, "I've already started to stink of her. Maybe, I should just carve a letter to her father onto the skin of her back and send her into the blizzard to find her own way home. That'd be a fine lesson to those bastards in Rivendell."

The beast looked at me reproachfully with wide yellow eyes.

"Or maybe not."

There was another silent pause. Then, she bared her fangs and sounded a low yelp. I smiled and scratched her behind the ear, setting her hind leg into a rapid kicking motion against the stone floor.

"She's healing up nicely, though," I said, determined to keep the conversation going, " All those cuts I told you about? They're almost gone. Who'd have thought Elves are so quick to heal, huh? But then again: I treat her wounds almost every day with that ointment Morda gave to me…"

Bardha went back to chewing her bone, showing little interest in my story.

"Hahaha!" I laughed as I suddenly remembered the little curiosity, "Did you know that Elves have birthmarks, too? Kasaksma's got one on her breast and three on the inside of her left thigh. They're like the points of a triangle."

I traced the figure in the air with my index finger. Bardha looked up and moved her ears sceptically.

"I'm ranting now, I know," I sighed apologetically, "I'll leave you in peace."

I emptied the bucket of treats and gave the broad head of the Warg a last scratch before heading back to my own quarters and, hopefully, a good dinner.

That night I caught up with the attendant of the female Elf on the stairs to my chamber. He was carrying a jug of fresh water which he almost dropped as he saw me.

"What filthy lies have you been spreading?" I spat at him without further introduction.

He was the kind of _snaga_ you could intimidate into submission without any actual physical beating.

"None, Master, I swear!" he squeaked, his grey eyes wide with fear, "It's just…"

"Yes?" I boomed, towering above him in my full height.

"Kasaksma, Master," he continued, "She's talking to me…"

"Of course, she's talking," I interrupted, "She's not dumb."

"But, Master, I swear…"

"What's that?"

I pointed at a white object that the attendant had been clenching in his fist all along. Tentatively, he raised his hand to show me its content. I took the object from him and inspected it carefully. It was a fine white comb made of a single long piece of polished ivory.

"She said she needed a comb, Master," the attendant explained hurriedly, "For her hair."

"I know what combs are for, _snaga_ ," I said coldly, tucking the trinket away in the folds of my belt.

"But it was made by my sister…"

"Hush!" I snapped and took the jug out of his hands, "If I ever catch you bringing her gifts again, I'll cut your hands off – one finger at a time!"

The cold air hit me like a wall as I entered the chamber. The fires had nearly died down, I noticed, and the curtain at the window was flapping loosely in the snow-filled wind. I cursed under my breath and put the jug down before piling some wood on the dying embers. Thankfully, the fires caught on again quickly.

The female was sitting motionlessly on the broad windowsill, her hair and legs partially covered in snow. I grabbed her wrist and jerked her away violently, then hung the curtain back on its hooks. Her hands were icy cold and bluish from lack of blood circulation.

"You!" I rasped, feeling my patience with her wearing thin very rapidly, "You're a most vexing creature! If you want to kill yourself, why can't you just be done with it quickly? Why do you have to pester me every single day with your miserable existence?"

I continued to scold her while I shoved her into bed and tucked the covers in around her.

"If you weren't this scrawny, I swear I'd feed you to Bardha!"

I washed and dried myself off before getting into bed. Annoyed, I pulled some of the covers over to my side, careful not to touch her cold body.

"A bloody lousy bed-warmer, that's what you are!" I sneered, "Too bony, too small and too damn cold!"

" _Mabull argoj gajumat ug flo!_ _ **[5]**_ "

The words rang out in perfect Orcish, demanding immediate and absolute obeisance. I bolted up-right and glared at the Elf.

"What did you say?!" I exclaimed, my annoyance giving way to sudden surprise.

She glared back at me with defiance.

"You heard what I said," she replied, this time in Common Tongue, and turned her back on me.

I lay back down and stared up into the vaulted ceiling, utterly speechless. For the first time in many years, I suddenly felt that I might have bitten off more than I could swallow.

* * *

[1] Slaves

[2] Liquor

[3] Flower-blood – derogative name for an Elf.

[4] White One / Whitey / Whites.

[5] Shut your ugly mouth and go to sleep!


	6. Only Words

**5\. Only Words**

" _Lam…oz_?" I attempted tentatively.

Kahrn shook his head violently and pointed to the scroll of parchment once more as if he was trying to poke at my memory.

" _Lamosh_ _ **[1]**_ ," I said, almost certain that I had got it right this time.

" _Doh!_ _ **[2]**_ " he exclaimed, his characteristic smile spreading across his face.

Then, he pointed at the berries on my plate. I was on much firmer ground here; we had been practicing the food and the cutlery for some days now.

" _Kokar_ _ **[3]**_ ," I said self-assuredly.

" _De-shum?_ _ **[4]**_ " he asked.

Damn him, I hadn't expected that question. I was still unsure about numbers. There were eight berries on the plate, but what was 'eight' called in Orcish? Karhn eyed me expectantly.

"Ehm…"

" _Ash, shun, gakh, jhet, krak, djor, iet…_ _ **[5]**_ " he counted on his fingers, raising one eyebrow when he got to eight.

I had no idea. My mind was as blank as a slab of marble pavestone. Quickly, I tossed one of the berries into my mouth and said:

" _Iet_!"

For a moment, Karhn looked confused. Then, we both burst into laughter.

" _Iet ug ash_ ," he said, " _hokh._ _ **[6]**_ "

 _Hokh_ , that was it. _Hokh kokari_ – eight berries. I counted further:

" _Hokh, krith, zunn, zunnugash, zunnugshun, zunnuggakh…_ _ **[7]**_ "

Karhn cleared his throat to get my attention and pointed to the water in my cup.

" _Jut zanishi_ _ **[8]**_ ," I said.

He pointed at the fork.

" _Baug. Anbaug._ _Anbaug trizmab._ _ **[9]**_ "

" _Mir!_ _ **[10]**_ " Karhn grinned, clapping his hands with satisfaction.

The little _snaga_ , or slave, was a hard but enthusiastic teacher. He insisted on teaching me three new words every day and to practice the familiar terms in different constellations and contexts. When the blizzard had set in, I had been devastated by the notion of having to postpone my return to my father's court. The prospect of having to dwell in this bleak place for more than a couple of days was hard to come to terms with, and I knew that if I didn't find something meaningful to occupy my thoughts, I would go mad here. I no longer know which one of us started the lessons in Orcish. Perhaps it was me, desperate to make myself understood. Perhaps it was Karhn, eager to talk to someone. The timidity he had shown the first time I met him soon melted away, and he was now the best conversational partner I could ever wish for. Also, it helped our friendship that I shared my meals with him. He wasn't too happy with the fruits and nuts, but he accepted gladly a piece of the coarse Orcish bread he brought me. When he left me, I would sit at the window and repeat the lectures of the day while watching the snowfall.

A scraping noise from the door made Karhn jump up and hurry to my side to take my hand. Lately, he had grown very protective of me, but I couldn't persuade him to tell me why. Some days, he would let me out of the chamber to take a sneaking stroll along the nearest ones of the deserted corridors, but he would always escort me, holding my hand in his. I had learned that he was in fact not an Orc, but a Goblin, which accounted for his large eyes and long limbs as well as his unusual manners. He and seven of his sisters had been sold into slavery by their father when they had been no more than small children. For Goblins, Karhn had told me, holding hands was a sign of respect and friendship. When I had asked him how Orcs showed their sympathy and friendship to each other, he had just grinned at me and shaken his head.

For a long moment, we were both listening in silence. Then, Karhn tiptoed to the door and pressed one of his long pointy ears to the wood. The scraping noise was repeated outside. Swiftly as the wind, the Goblin flung the door open and jumped out. There was a loud squeak and some commotion, and I hurried after him to see what was happening.

" _Morg_ _ **[11]**_ ," he said, showing a row of blood-stained teeth.

The big black body of a dead rat was hanging limply from his hand, dripping red blood onto the flagstones. He didn't wait for my reaction, but squatted down immediately and started to tear at the carcass, swallowing large chunks of flesh and intestines.

" _Morg_ ," I repeated in a low voice, my heart sinking in my chest, " _Vadokan morg._ _ **[12]**_ "

I stepped back into my chamber and closed the door behind me silently, leaving the Goblin to his feast. I felt sick and frustrated like never before. I don't know what I had expected from my stay in Moria, but this place was a true madhouse inhabited by a bunch of blood-thirsty barbarians. I wondered that I had managed to stay alive and – I told myself – relatively sane this far. Everything here seemed to happen according to some different, topsy-turvy sort of logic. A couple of nights ago, for instance, I had thought that my harsh words to the Orc king would result in my instant death, but instead he had just shut his mouth and gone to sleep as I had told him to do. When I had woken up the next morning, he had been gone as usual. After that day, he had almost only addressed me in Orcish.

Indeed, Azog the Defiler was a whole chapter onto himself. He was ugly as a demon from the caves of Angmar with deep-set scars criss-crossing his face and massive body. His bald head was flanked by pointy lopsided ears one of which had been torn or bitten off at some point, his small wide-set eyes were cold, mean and pale as his skin, his nose was broad and flat, and his teeth were terrifyingly crooked and sharp. Instead of his left hand, he had a hook at the end of an iron rod that was pulled right through his forearm and stuck out through his elbow. In spite of the inconvenient shape of his odd prosthetics, he was surprisingly agile in handling it. The first few nights I had slept next to him, I had been frightened that he might poke me bloody with it, but he didn't even touch me. Obviously, he was accustomed to sharing his bed with another person – which was more than I could say I was. Sometimes, I would wake up to find him pulling at a corner of the covers I had taken all to myself during the night, or to feel him pushing me gruffly back to my own side of the bed because I had taken up too much space. And then there were the baths. The Pale Orc was remarkably fond of taking baths, I noticed. Every second morning, a couple of slaves would bring in a huge bathtub and fill it with steaming hot water, fragrant with wild herbs. Then, he would sit and soak in it for a while with closed eyes before going about his business. That accounted for his smell of thyme, I had thought, watching him through half-closed eyes, pretending to still be asleep. To be honest, the king of Moria intrigued me more than anything else I had seen in this damned place.

A sudden homesickness washed over me, bringing tears to my eyes, and I couldn't figure out if I longed more for the light marble halls of Rivendell or for the cool serenity of Lothlórien where I had spent most of my childhood. But what was Rivendell to me? I thought suddenly. And what was Lórien? At my father's court, I had always been a bastard – a beautiful outcast whose only hope for rising in rank and credit would be by marrying one of my father's officials; in my case, it would be the young officer Olwain as my mother had ordained. In Lórien, on the other hand, I was one of many young men and women who came to seek the wisdom and teachings of the Lady of the Forest. Neither place had ever quite felt like a home to me – they were only meaningless words around which I could build an image of myself.

I went to the window and looked out. It had stopped snowing, but everything was cloaked in a thick white mist. Usually, staring out into freedom and breathing the fresh cold air would bring comfort to my mind, but this time I couldn't bear the thought of the outside world. I heard the click of the key in the door, and I knew that Karhn wouldn't come back again that day. I didn't mind; in fact, I would have been repulsed by the mere sight of him now. I felt a sudden sharp pain in my belly – it must be a full moon, because my moon blood was about to come on. I went to the bed and laid down, pulling the thick covers over me and feeling completely wretched. The rich scent of the coarse linen and the fragrant smell of sweat and wild thyme from Azog's body enveloped me, pulling me into a sweet oblivion where only the cramps from my womb and a dreamless sleep existed.

* * *

[1] A scroll.

[2] Yes!

[3] Berry.

[4] How many?

[5] One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

[6] Seven and one. Eight.

[7] Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…

[8] The water is in the cup.

[9] Fork. My fork. My fork is on the table.

[10] Good!

[11] Rat.

[12] A rat. A dead rat.


	7. Little Fang

**6\. Little Fang**

I glanced at the window as I entered, expecting Kasaksma to be sitting there like she used to do. It was covered by the heavy leather curtain, however, and the entire room seemed to be deserted. Had she escaped somehow? I had been sitting in the throne hall, negotiating with the emissaries of the king of the Goblins all day, and my head throbbed with fatigue. I wasn't in the mood for chasing a run-away Elf in the middle of the night.

Then, I saw a small motionless heap on the bed, and I stepped closer on noiseless feet. She was lying in a foetal position, almost completely wrapped up in the covers. I leaned in above her and moved her tangled hair from her face with one finger. She didn't stir. Her characteristic Elvish flowery-leafy smell had a hint of iron, and when I put the back of my hand to her forehead, I could feel a faint fever. I relaxed a bit, reassured that nothing serious had happened to her. If Eldar females were anything like Orc women, she would bleed around the time of the full moon.

I went to the window and took the curtain off its hooks. The snow had stopped falling, and there was neither a cloud nor a patch of mist to be seen anywhere. The night was dark, still and clear, not even a breeze stirring the air. The moon had just emerged above the jagged cliffs, her round pale face casting a ghostly light onto the mountainsides. Usually, the nights of Moria were loud with the yelps and howls of the Wargs, but tonight not even they dared to disturb the silence. I don't know how long I stood there, engulfed by the splendour of the night, but suddenly I became aware of a presence next to me, and I looked down. The Elf had woken and stepped up to my side without me noticing, and now we were both glaring at a sight we hadn't seen for more than two weeks.

As I stood watching her, her small body began to shake – almost unnoticeably at first, then more fiercely. She put a hand to her mouth and erupted in a stifled sob, and I realised that she was crying. An unexpected anxiety caught me; I had never seen a sad Elf, and I had no idea how to handle one.

"Hey!" I said sternly, grabbing her shoulder and turning her towards me.

I expected her to push me away, but she just stood there resignedly with closed eyes, her cheeks wet with tears.

"Hey!" I repeated, trying to make my voice a bit more soothing, "Look at the moon. Isn't she beautiful?"

She opened her eyes and followed my look as I nodded towards the night sky.

"I bet the stars are out, too," I continued hurriedly, afraid to lose her attention again, "Would you like to go and see them? I know the perfect place."

She ran a palm across her face, wiping away her tears, and nodded. I found one of my fur cloaks and wrapped her up tightly. Then, taking her by the wrist, I led her from the chamber.

It was more difficult to get to The Outlook than I had expected. After exiting through a back door that was almost entirely barricaded by snow, we had to wade through waist-high drifts for several yards. After a final obstacle of the compressed lumps from a small avalanche blocking the path, we reached the hillock with the unusual flat stones from where you could see above the top of all the other hills for miles around. Here, the snow was shallow as it had been blown away by the fierce wind prevailing at this place during the blizzard.

I brushed the snow off one of the angular slabs, sat down and patted the stone, inviting the female to sit next to me. After a moment's hesitation, she did. Just as I had thought, the moon was accompanied by a hoard of stars that night. The Star River stretched its luminous stream from the peaks of the north-eastern cliffs all the way above our heads to the lower rolling hills in the west. For a while, we both sat in silent admiration.

" _Han. Viri_ ," Kasaksma said, breaking the silence, " _Han ug viri shakalakog._ _ **[1]**_ "

I looked at her, amazed. Her Orcish was becoming better for each day that passed.

"The People of the Stars," I said, "Why do you call yourselves that?"

She turned and looked directly into my eyes. In the moonlight, her black pupils were so dilated that they filled out her whole eyeballs. The sight made me shiver.

"The stars were created by the gods of the heavens," she explained, "But they thought the earth was too barren and dark, so they created the Eldar to mirror the beauty of the stars above."

I snorted. Verily, Elves didn't put their light under a bushel!

" _Raulug draut ob viri_ _ **[2]**_ ," she continued in Orcish.

" _Mabaj raul draut ob viri_ _ **[3]**_ ," I corrected her kindly.

" _Doh. Mabaj raul_ …[4]" she repeated, her voice trailing off into nothing.

She started to weep again soundlessly, big tears rolling down her cheeks. I reached out to wipe them away, but she pulled back, avoiding my touch.

"D'you know what my people call you?" I said quickly to forestall further awkwardness, "They call you Kasaksma. D'you know what that means?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

"Little Fang", she whispered.

" _Dath_![5]" I said encouragingly.

Suddenly, I remembered the ivory comb I had confiscated from the _snaga_. It was still tucked away in my belt. I found it and handed it to her.

" _U lat_.[6]"

Kasaksma turned the comb over and over in her hands, inspecting its shape and smoothness in silence for a long moment. In the end, I grew nervous that she would start crying again, but then she looked up and said:

"How do you say 'thank you'?"

After the harsh cold of the night air, it was a bliss to be burrowed under the thick covers. I leaned back into the soft pillows and watched Kasaksma undress. She stood at the bedside hesitating for a while, her hands clenching the comb protectively in front of her belly. I must have looked rather inquisitively at her, because suddenly she said shyly in a minuscule voice:

"It's that time of the moon. I'm unclean."

So, my notion had been right, I mused, but why did she think herself unclean? Was that really what the Eldar thought of their bleeding women? What sort of savages would teach their daughters to be ashamed of their own bodies? I reached out and took her by the wrist.

"In Moria, you're the daughter of the Great Mother," I said, pulling her gently to my side, "And none of the Great Mother's children are ever unclean."

"The Great Mother?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"I know your stories of how you think we were created," I said, "You say Orcs were once Elves who were corrupted by evil forces. Nonsense! In the beginning of time, there were the gods of the heavens. They created the sun and the moon and the stars. And they created the Great Warrior to roam the endless skies."

Kasaksma lay down, resting her head on my out-stretched arm. My tale seemed to have captured her attention completely. This – this was like trying to tame a wild beast, I thought. One bad word or movement, and she would be gone, perhaps forever. All of a sudden, it reminded me of the first time Bardha had accepted food from my hand, and I felt my heart quicken in my chest at the notion.

"But there was another being – Mother Earth," I went on, "Her beauty awoke the lust in the Great Warrior, and from their union, all living creatures were born: trees, birds, fishes, mammals – all the plants and animals. The gods of the heavens, however, grew jealous of all the splendid creatures of the Great Mother, and they decided to put an end to her fertility. One night when she was asleep, they went to her bed and cut large chunks off her flesh, disfiguring her forever. But the pieces turned into _Uruk_ , warrior people, and they drove the gods from the earth. We Orcs are the last children of the Great Mother, and we still live in the crevices of her body from where we were carved."

"And what about the Great Warrior?" Kasaksma asked, her dark eyes wide with hunger to learn more.

"You can still see him in the sky at night," I smiled, "I think you know him as the Hunter."

She snuggled a bit closer and traced one of the scars on my chest contemplatively with a finger. Carefully, I put my hand on her soft belly and rubbed it cautiously. First, she flinched at my touch, but soon she relaxed again as the cramps of her womb were being eased. She went back to tracing my scars with her fingers.

"Are these from a battle?" she whispered.

"In a way," I said, memory of the event coming back to me, "The white Warg I'm riding, Bardha… She wasn't too keen on being ridden at first."

"And your hand?"

"That was taken by a Dwarf," I answered, my voice unintentionally hard with bitterness.

"Does it hurt to have that hook in its place?"

"No! Well, yes. But it's a low, throbbing kind of pain. I hardly feel it these days," I said.

I thought of Bolg's steel breastplates that were fastened directly onto his ribs and added:

"I guess we have a high pain threshold in my clan."

I moved my hand from her belly to her tousled black hair lying across her shoulder and ran my fingers through the tresses, combing out the worst of the knots. She was still clenching the comb in her hand, her small bony knuckles nearly as white as the ivory. The Elf closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Her long black eyelashes cast shadows down her cheeks, and her forehead became smooth with oncoming sleep. The bruises on her high cheekbones had changed colour from blackish to greenish, and her skin was no longer swollen. She had an interesting face which I hadn't really bothered to study before. Had it not been for her small protruding nose and full red lips, I might even have considered her pretty.

* * *

[1] Moon. Stars. The moon and the stars are shining.

[2] I'm missing the light of the stars.

[3] I have missed the light of the stars.

[4] Yes. I have missed…

[5] That's right!

[6] This is for you.


	8. Children

**7\. Children**

" _Nar_![1]" the old Orc exclaimed and let his crooked wooden cane fall hard on the table top, missing my fingers by a few inches.

My palms became wet with sweat, and I eyed my new teacher with wide frightened eyes, wondering what would happen next.

" _Nug. Ob ohar_ _ **[2]**_ ," he said more calmly, tapping the scroll of parchment lying in front of me with the tip of the cane.

I sighed and went back to the start of the sentence. Orcish runes were like nothing I had ever encountered before. I had known about them – in Lórien we used to call Orcish the Black Speech – but the Lady of the Forest had refused to teach it to any of her students. I had spent the whole morning with old Morda, trying to memorise the letters of its alphabet, but somehow they kept eluding my memory. Speaking Orcish was one thing, but reading it was something entirely different and much more challenging.

This morning, I had woken to the familiar splashing sound of water as Azog had got out of his bathtub. He had sent me a faint smile when he had caught me watching him, and I had known right away that something was amiss.

"Is there something wrong?" I had asked, surprised by the worried sound of my own voice, "Are you alright?"

I had thrown a cloak around me and had stepped closer to him. Taking the towel out of his hand, I had started to pat him dry. His scarred shoulders had been all up-tight.

"It's nothing," he had said, shaking his head, "Just a foolish dream I use to have sometimes."

"Tell me."

"It's just…" he had sighed, "I dream that I'm shot by an Elf arrow, and then the arrow sprouts into a branch with leaves and flowers. It's stupid really."

"Dreams are never stupid," I had said, standing back to look him in the eyes, "They tell us about the past or the future. In their own way, they always tell the truth."

He had shaken his head again and had started to dress, struggling to fasten his loincloth and belt with one hand. I had stood looking at him fumbling with the belt for a moment before taking over. He had looked silently down on me with something like gratefulness in his cold hard eyes.

"One more notch," he had said quietly, and I had pulled the belt tighter, "That's it."

Then, I had helped him with his boots, none of us saying a word. At last, he had bent down and put some of my tangled hair behind my ear.

"Take a bath, comb your hair and get dressed. I'm taking you out today."

So, here I was, in the library of Morda the Sage, trying to decipher a scroll on the succession of the Orc kings of Gundabad. I made another tentative attempt at the first two words, remembering a few of the runes while guessing at the rest, and looked up at the old man. He nodded, so I must have got it right this time.

Morda was the oldest looking person I had ever seen. His bent body was wrapped in an odd cloak which seemed too large and heavy for the fragile body. The skin on his bony hands was spotted and dried up like parchment, but his fingers were strong and gnarled like his cane and ended in long yellow claw-like nails. The top of his head was crowned by a few strands of flimsy white hair falling onto two pointed ears, the earlobes of which were weighed down by a dozen metal earrings. He was blind with two hideously swollen burn marks where his eyes should have been, and his mouth was a thin black line with only a few remaining teeth in it.

The sage hadn't wasted a moment. As soon as Azog had left, Morda had stepped up to me leaning on his cane and had grabbed me by the throat with his strong fingers. I had gasped, more from fear than from pain. He had studied me with raised eyebrows until I had relaxed a bit in his grasp. Then, he had run his hand across my face, touching every feature from the top of my head to my neck while murmuring indistinguishably to himself. In spite of his blindness, his perception seemed incredibly keen.

" _Mulg gru_ ," he had rasped, nodding to himself, " _Azog galin da tovantan_.[3]"

He had scrambled to one of the wooden shelves covering the walls and containing hundreds of books and parchments. He had counted the shelves, and reaching the sixth, he had counted the scrolls lying there. He had grabbed the third scroll and had said in Common Tongue:

"Azog tells me you've already learned to speak a bit. I'll teach you to read and to write."

The old Orc tapped the scroll again and cleared his throat to indicate that I should continue reading. I leaned over the parchment once more, but the words seemed to dissolve into ink-coloured clouds. Morda had told me to read out the runes separately if the words caused any trouble, and then try to put them together afterwards. If I made any mistakes, I had to go back to the start again. This time, I got through half a page without further difficulties.

" _Nar lovan_ _ **[4]**_ ,"Morda said, nodding again.

The list of kings presiding over Gundabad from the middle of the Second Age and onwards and the names and offices of their offspring seemed endless. Also, there was no end to the inventive ways in which these kings had been disposed of by their successors. Everything from a common hanging to an execution in some sort of game called The Circus had been employed to rob these rulers of their position and lives – and the honour of the so-called heirs seemed nonetheless to have remained intact. The whole affair made my head throb.

"Morda?" I asked, eyeing a chance to take a short break from the reading, "Will there be any heir to Moria? I mean – if Azog…"

If Azog was killed in battle? If he was poisoned? Or his throat was slit? I didn't quite know which option to choose. Orcs seemed to die by a wide variety of means. Fortunately, the old sage came to my rescue, saying:

"Oh yes, definitely! If Azog dies, his son will take the throne."

"His son? I didn't know Azog had a son."

" _Bolg Bumbullaul_ – Bolg the Thunderer. He has been raised to take the lead when his father dies."

I remembered to have heard that name before, but where? Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had seen him while swimming in and out of consciousness in my dungeon cell. A massive and ugly ogre of muscles and steel, Bolg had been the one who had supervised my imprisonment and torture. I felt my heart jump with a sudden overwhelming disgust for him.

"Bolg? But he doesn't even look like Azog," I snorted with contempt.

"No, he doesn't," Morda answered plainly, "He looks like his mother."

"His mother?" I asked, feeling like a fool.

Why hadn't it ever occurred to me that there might be a queen of Moria as well?

"Alia," Morda said, touching his forehead with two fingers in a solemn salutation, "She's dead. We don't talk about her. Now, continue reading."

I read another half page, my headache increasing with every sentence. Luckily, I was soon interrupted by a loud knock on the door, and Azog entered.

" _Denaj?_ _ **[5]**_ " he asked, addressing himself to Morda.

" _Mir allat_ _ **[6]**_ ," Morda answered, making Azog smile and nod.

"I thought so," he said in Common Tongue, turning to me, "Time for food. _Vaj_![7]"

"What did he say?" I asked as we sat down at the end of a long trestle table in the vast dining hall.

There was a bustle of Orcs and Goblins, all scrambling to get a bowl of food from the large iron cauldron that had been put up over the embers of the central hearth. Many of them sent me long sideway glances, but they kept a respectful distance.

"He said you're shitty at reading," Azog answered gruffly, pouring water into two cups and handing one to me, "You should make more of an effort."

I eyed him sceptically, but he didn't even blink. His almost transparent blue eyes were resting on his bowl of soup, and his mouth was a stern straight line, expressing no feelings at all. I lifted the cup to my mouth, deciding to hold my tongue about the things I had learned from Morda. I couldn't stop wondering, however, what sort of twisted ambition could drive a woman – Orc or other – to conceive and give birth to a child of Azog's. Despite his good moments, the man was after all a monster.

"Morda's eyes," I said, "What happened to them?"

The Pale Orc impaled a piece of bread with his hooked left hand, dipped it into his soup and put it into his mouth. He lifted his head and looked at me coldly, chewing his food very slowly and deliberately. I felt my throat constrict and the small hairs on the back of my neck rise. He was obviously growing tired of all my questions. Then, the moment suddenly passed. He swallowed and wiped his disfigured lips with the back of his right hand.

"Morda had been…ehm… very close to my mother all his life," Azog said, "He followed her to the court of Gundabad when my father took her to be his consort. Morda went into the service of my father and was his most trusted counsellor for many years. Then, my mother died when she gave birth to me."

He cast his eyes down and snorted.

"They cut me from her womb, but she couldn't heal up. In a sense, she was my first kill… Anyway, Morda went almost mad with grief for her, and my father grew worried that his most trustworthy counsellor would leave his court. So one evening, he put his eyes out with a burning branch from the hearth. To prevent him from going anywhere."

I cringed at the gruesomeness of the story.

"And Morda stayed?" I asked.

"Morda stayed. And he devoted his life to raising me. Most of what I know, I owe to his teachings. I was the child he himself would never have."

"And your father?"

"He died in battle some five years later. I don't have many memories of him."

I stared at the giant Orc in front of me, trying to imagine him as a lonely little child. The image was difficult to conjure up, though I could see in his eyes that the orphan was still there somewhere behind the warrior and the king. I thought of my own parents. Lord Elrond of Rivendell who had always been kind to me, but in a rather distant and unattainable way; and Gannina, once Lady Celebrían's first lady in waiting, later my devoted but quite ambitious and stern mother. Although I was the result of an unholy romance, I felt a sudden rush of gratitude that both my parents were still alive.

" _Angoth!_ _ **[8]**_ "

The messenger's high-pitched voice pulled both of us out of our contemplations even before he himself broke through the thronging crowd in the hall. He stopped a couple of paces from Azog and inclined his head humbly, his long wild hair falling into his eyes.

" _Tul katu_.[9]"

" _Mavajub_ _ **[10]**_ ," Azog answered, nodding.

The messenger bowed, turned on his heels and went away as swiftly as he had come.

"Who's here?" I asked.

"Two children of the Goblin king," Azog sighed, rubbing his eyes with two fingers, "He pretends to show his loyalty by sending them to my court. In reality, he doesn't care if his son lives or dies – he's got more than twenty of those brats – and his daughter… He hopes to buy my goodwill by placing her in my bed when she grows up."

"He sounds ambitious."

"He's ambitious and deceitful. The only things that interest him are power and gold."

Azog looked at me with an expression that suggested he had told me too much.

"Finish your soup and let's go and greet them," he added quickly, "Maybe you can get that Goblin _snaga_ of yours to wait on them."

"Kahrn."

"What?"

"His name is Kahrn."

The Orc eyed me for a moment, puzzled.

"Whatever," he shrugged and emptied his bowl in one gulp.

* * *

[1] No!

[2] Again. From the start.

[3] The Eldar woman. Azog is as crazy as his father.

[4] Not too bad.

[5] How is it going?

[6] She's better than you.

[7] Come!

[8] My Lord!

[9] They're here.

[10] I'll be right there.


	9. The Dancer and the Singer

**8\. The Dancer and the Singer**

As we ascended the broad stairs to the upper courtyard, the clashing of metal upon metal and the loud grunts and shouts of men carried to us on the fresh winter breeze. I felt a rising anxiety in my guts for every step I took. It hadn't been easy to overcome my discomfort at spending several hours every day alone with strict old Morda, but being left behind in the company of fifty armed – an possibly hostile – Orcish warriors-to-be was not at all to be taken lightly, I thought.

The day had started off pretty well. I had been awakened by a sharp elbow in my kidneys because I had seemingly managed to conquer most of the bed again during the night. Azog and I had broken our fast together in the great dining hall, discussing the housing of the two Goblin children. To be franc, their appearance had disappointed me somewhat. The boy had been no more than a big toddler, his sister only a few years older. They had been clad in ragged clothes and had been standing bare-foot on the cold stone floor of the enormous audience hall, glaring at the king of Moria and me with large awestruck eyes, open mouths and snot running from their dirty noses. They hadn't looked like the offspring of a king, but more like the children of the poorest of beggars. After Azog and his officials had performed the official reception, I had sent for Kahrn and had him ship the two children off to a bath, a hot supper and a warm bed.

"Perhaps they could make themselves useful in the kitchens," The Pale Orc had said, tearing at a cold piece of cooked grey meat, "Or I could eat them. Or they could wash your clothes."

I had reminded him that they were, after all, the children of a king, and that their father would probably take it as a personal insult if they were to serve an Eldar. Azog had nodded thoughtfully.

"What do you suggest?"

"When some of the children of our allies are sent to live among us in Rivendell, Lord Elrond always treats them with utmost respect. They are given into the care of his counsellors and are given a proper education and upbringing according to our values and traditions."

The king of Moria had just kept nodding contemplatively, looking into my eyes.

"I suggest you have the children of the Goblin king raised alongside the children of your highest officials," I had continued, encouraged, "You'll not only have them under surveillance, but you'll probably gain their affection and be able to keep their loyalty even if their father should turn away from you."

As I had finished talking, his lips had twisted into a smirk, and he had said:

"You're the first Elf who has ever made sense to me. There's someone you should meet."

So, here I was, marching up the stairs to the courtyard where the recruits were trained. In spite of Azog's promises that I wouldn't come to any harm, that his trusted captain and life-long mate Sim would protect me, I couldn't help thinking that sending me into this company of recruits was like sending a hind into a wolf's den. Even Kahrn, who had to escort me, radiated anxiety.

We went through a giant stone archway, and all of a sudden, we were out in the open. Or in what at first seemed like the open. The bright milk-white light of the winter sun blinded me temporarily, but as I regained my sight, the magnificence of the place almost took my breath away. The courtyard was in the bottom of an enormous circular well carved right into the mountain. The sides of the well were laced with several galleries with polished columns and openwork balustrades going all the way around the circle. They rose in levels about halfway up the well side. The bottom level was dominated by eight gigantic vaulted portals like the one Kahrn and I had entered through, all leading into different wings of the underground complex. I looked up and squinted at the light coming in from above. Some thousand feet above my head, two birds flew by.

The courtyard was packed with Orcs in leather armours, fighting two and two with what looked like long staves ending in sharp halberds. The air was heavy with the smell of their sweat. The Orc standing closest to me was hit hard in the chest by his comrade and backed into me, making me almost trip over Kahrn. As he turned and saw me, his eyes went wide, and he hissed, baring a row of crooked teeth. As by magic, the whole company of recruits stopped in mid-motion and turned towards me with glaring eyes. The entire courtyard went silent in an instant, and Kahrn took hold of my hand protectively. For a long moment, the army of Orcs and I just glared at each other.

Then, the crowd was parted by a huge warrior who pushed himself past the recruits, cursing at them loudly. He stopped in front of me, spreading his legs and crossing his massive arms above his fat round belly. He was about two heads taller than most of the recruits and as round as a barrel. His face was disfigured by two patched-up cuts running from the corners of his mouth almost to his ears, and his greasy hair and whiskers ended mid-back and mid-chest in thick greying dreadlocks decorated with blue glass beads and golden rings. This must be Sim, I though, swallowing hard and trying to look brave.

" _Rau laamob Azog, huh?_ [1]" he said, scrutinising me through narrowed eyes.

" _Malaamob narhai_![2]" I answered, my voice trembling with fear as well as with a sudden anger. He had no right to insult me like that!

Kahrn squeezed my fingers more fiercely, but I shook his hand off me and added:

" _Kag me luvau!_ _ **[3]**_ "

Sim's eyes widened and he bent close, his nose almost touching mine.

" _Latnaval luvau't?_ _ **[4]**_ " he asked with a mock-incredulous voice.

Not waiting for my answer, he drew himself up to his full height, stuck his thumbs into his leather belt and erupted in a deep cascading laughter.

" _Naval luvau't!_ " he bellowed, turning towards the hoard of recruits, " _Mulg naval luvau't! Mayagoz lulgijak! Yazir!_ _ **[5]**_ "

A general jeering broke out among the men. Sim turned from me and stomped away, his belly quivering with laughter. Kahrn and I exchanged a nervous glance. Had I said the wrong thing?

Soon, the crowd was parted once more, and a small Orc in leather armour came forth. He stopped abruptly as he saw me and glanced hesitantly over his shoulder towards Sim. Then, he seemed to make up his mind and he glowered at me with mean emerald-green eyes as he threw a bunch of leather into my arms. The force of the angry shove almost knocked me to the ground. It was clear that he had recognised me, but where had I seen him? I donned the leather suit as well as I could and nodded to Kahrn as a sign that it was alright for him to leave me. He backed away with hesitant steps, but his face told me he didn't mind leaving this company at all.

The recruit fetched two of the long halberds and threw one of them into my hands. I weighed and swung it tentatively to assess its potential, but the Orc hit me hard on the shoulder with the flat side of his weapon and hissed:

" _Latnaval luvau't? Luvau!_ [6]"

We circled each other for a moment, both of us measuring the other. The recruit was about half a head smaller than me, but I couldn't decide if that was his actual height or one that was due to his heavy stoop. His arms and legs were sinewy and strong, and his skin had an olive shade, very unlike the pale skin of the Gundabad Orcs. His nose and ears were long and pointy, and he wore his brown hair in an intricate arrangement of long braids running across his head and down his back. With a swift movement, he hit me in the face with the flat side of his halberd. Then he spun around and kicked me hard in the stomach, knocking the breath out of me. I dropped my weapon and fell to my knees, wheezing painfully. The Orc grabbed my hair and jerked my head up to make me look at him.

" _Mulg palay_![7]" he hissed, spitting into my face.

Three of his front teeth were missing, and spittle was running down his chin as he spoke. The sight sparked my memory. He was the one who had captured me, the one I had fought by kicking his teeth out. At closer inspection, I saw that a chunk of his right ear was missing too. Biting a piece off an Orc had been the grossest thing I had ever done – no wonder I had repressed the memory. He gave my hair another violent jerk. With a sudden swing of his halberd, he cut half of it right off and threw the severed tresses on the ground in front of me.

" _Arflok lu gujat, lat kumvaut. Lat kumvaut, latmat_ ," he spat, giving me a hard shove towards my fallen halberd with his foot, " _Latberaz arpatarshan, latmat. Kargan_![8]"

I reached for the weapon a couple of times, but each time I took it, the Orc knocked it out of my hands again, hitting me hard on the knuckles with the wooden end of his halberd. And each time he yelled at me to pick it up again. After the third time, I succeeded in holding on to it and blocking his strikes. We fought for a while before he knocked me to the ground again. By now, my hands were bleeding from the hits, and my whole body was numb with pain.

" _Nagraufom_![9]" the recruit ordered, but I just lay on my back panting.

He was just about to give me another nudge with his boot when a sharp whistle deterred him.

" _Kjani, lulgijak_ ,[10]" he said and stomped away with the rest of the company, leaving me on the floor of the courtyard.

When I opened my eyes, the milk-white sky high above and the blurred version of Sim's round face was swimming in and out of my field of vision. The big warrior took me by my wrists and lifted me to my feet with a swooping movement.

"Enough lying around," he said, ushering me to the far end of the courtyard, where the recruits were having their lunch at a dozen long trestle tables. Some of them turned and grinned at me scornfully, but Sim sent them a gaze as dark as a thundercloud.

"Yazir, move your fat ass," he said to the recruit I had been fighting and pushed me in along the bench to sit next to him.

The small Orc sent me a mean look, turned his back on me and hauled a strange-looking string instrument from under the table which he started to play lowly to himself. Sim fetched a bowl of grey barley gruel for me and poured a beaker of water to go with it. Then, he sat down next to me with a sigh, making the oak bench creak under his weight.

"I'm Sim – _Sim Lanzoganul_ _ **[11]**_ ," the big warrior said, turning towards me, "And you're the one they call Kasaksma. Azog hasn't talked about anything but you since you were caught. He says you're the daughter of Elrond, his name be cursed."

I glowered at him, trying to wipe my bloody hands clean on my leather suit.

"And your mother?" he asked, pretending not to have noticed my insulted expression.

"Lady Gannina, first lady in waiting to the late Lady Celebrían," I answered, straightening my back.

"I see," Sim said, "You're a bastard."

As he saw the angry flash in my eyes, he added cheerfully:

"Never you mind – so is Yazir here. Isn't that right, Yazir?"

Now, it was the small recruit's turn to cast a baleful look towards Sim. He didn't comment, though, but kept on playing his instrument with nimble fingers.

"Yazir's not that bad," Sim went on, giving my sore shoulder a comradely nudge with his elbow, "He's not even mad for what you did to him, you know. He just had to have his revenge. Actually, those lost teeth, they go down really well with the ladies."

Yazir turned abruptly and flashed a broad grin, his emerald eyes sparkling with the sudden change in his mood.

"I got more pussy the last four weeks than I've had the last four years in total!" he guffawed.

"You're welcome," I mumbled.

The two Orcs erupted in a roaring laughter and slapped my back, nearly making me choke on my gruel. Yazir took up his instrument again and played a merry tune, this time with a small bow. Then, he started to sing with a rasping tenor about a hare that was chased by a hound that was chased by a wolf. Sim smiled and shook his head. I just glared at the singing Orc. I had never heard Orcish song and music before.

"Why do you look different than the others?" I asked when Yazir had finished playing.

He scrutinised me for a moment through narrowed eyes. Then, he drew a deep breath and said:

"My father was a raider from Mordor, may the gods curse him. He raped my mother, and I was born. I've never known him, and I pray I never will. If I ever see that scum, I'll break his neck for the way he hurt my mother."

The afternoon session was much more enjoyable than the previous one. I don't know if it was because Yazir's blows had become milder or because I had grown accustomed to them. But when the sun set and the torches along the stone walls were lit, I was so engulfed in blocking and tackling techniques that I didn't even notice Azog watching us from one of the portals. It was Sim's loud greeting that finally made me look up. The Pale Orc must have been standing there for a while, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and his gaze fixed on me. Sim trudged over to him and they stood small-talking in a low voice, but Azog never took his eyes off me.

Then suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor, and four warriors came into the courtyard, leading two pinioned prisoners on leashes. They were led by Bolg who inclined his head to his father, saying:

"Sire! Two spies from Mordor. They were lurking around our southern gates."

All the recruits stopped and turned towards the newly entered company, gathering in a tight circle around them. Yazir and I pushed through the crowd to the inside of the circle to have a better view.

"Kneel, you scum!" Bolg sneered, pushing the prisoners to their knees.

One of them spat on the floor to show his contempt. He shouldn't have done that. Bolg was over him like a hawk. With a swift movement, he took the prisoner's head between his massive hands and twisted it, making his neck snap with a cracking sound. The other prisoner hissed, but he didn't dare to lift his eyes. Azog circled him, a hard and merciless expression on his face.

"Who sent you?" he asked, but the remaining prisoner stayed silent, "Why have you come? Answer the king of Moria!"

Finally, the Orc from Mordor looked up and sneered scornfully.

"Soon, your hidden treasuries will be swarming with raiders," he rasped, spitting black blood from his broken lips, "We'll rape your whores and enslave your ugly spawn. Then, I'll like to hear you call yourself the king of Moria, you coward!"

Azog's pale face turned, if possible, even paler. His mouth tightened into a thin straight line, and his nostrils dilated with anger. He grabbed the prisoner by the scruff of his neck and lifted him off the floor to have him in eye level.

"You'll neither hear nor see a damn thing course you'll be feeding the worms," he whispered.

For a moment, Azog and the prisoner locked eyes. Then, The Pale Orc dug his teeth into the Orc's throat. The scream of the prisoner echoed through the courtyard, bouncing off the walls. Soon, he went quiet, however, and his body hung limply in Azog's hands. The king of Moria let the dead Orc fall to the ground and spat out a piece of his windpipe with a mouthful of blood.

"Get this filth out of my sight!" he growled, a mix of blood and saliva oozing down his chin.

For a short moment, he made eye contact with me, his pale eyes still clouded with a mad rage. I turned away, shocked at the vicious violence I had just witnessed, and didn't move until I heard Azog and his men stomp from the courtyard.

* * *

[1] Azog's new pet, huh?

[2] I'm no-one's pet!

[3] Let me fight!

[4] You want to fight?

[5] She wants to fight! The Elf wants to fight! I like that scum! Yazir!

[6] You want to fight? Then fight!

[7] Eldar filth!

[8] If your hair's too long, you're caught. If you're caught, you die. If you lose your halberd, you die. Pick it up!

[9] Get up!

[10] Food, flower-blood.

[11] Sim the Dancer.


	10. The Fiance

**9\. The Fiance**

"Relax. She can smell your fear."

The great white Wrag circled us slowly with a look of caution in her yellow eyes. Meeting us out here in the open without any of her pack to back her up was not exactly her cup of tea. She had me, of course, but I was also the one who had brought the Elf. I could sense the confusion in her mind. I tightened my grip on Kasaksma's wrist and pulled her a little closer to me. She stared at the beast with wide dark eyes, partly frightful, partly amazed. I wondered if introducing the two ladies to each other had really been such a good idea.

"Move slowly," I added in a low voice, "And watch out you don't…"

Before I could stop her, Kasaksma stepped forward and reached out towards the Warg with an open palm. My heart must have skipped a beat; in the blink of an eye, the great white beast could have taken any of her limbs or gone straight for her throat, and I wouldn't have been able to do anything to prevent it. Instead of attacking, however, Bardha sniffed the Elf's fingers and looked up into her eyes, baring her fangs in a half-hearted growl. Kasaksma started to whisper some words in Sindarin, and the Warg stopped growling and pricked her ears attentively. After ascertaining herself that there was nothing fishy about the stranger, the beast gave the small out-stretched hand a nudge with her wet snout. Then, she turned from the Elf and bumped into me with her rear as she passed me as if to say that I had made a great fuss about nothing. A short way off, she started to rub her chin into the fresh snow with her tail held high. I turned to Kasaksma once more, feeling my jaw drop in awe.

"You _do_ have the power of charm…" I whispered, the words nearly refusing to leave my mouth.

"I do," the Elf said with a smug smile on her lips, "Or I may simply have your smell about me."

Of course! After four weeks of living together, our smells had become so synchronised that even I didn't notice the difference anymore. Besides, each time I've visited Bardha, she had smelled Kasaksma on me. She had had plenty of time to get used to the smell of the Elf. I felt stupid for having let myself be fooled so easily.

Kasaksma could see my embarrassment, but she didn't comment. Instead, she pulled her wrist from my grip and paced slowly over to Bardha who started to wag her tail lazily. I watched in amazement as the two made their first tentative contact. On our way here, we had stopped at the kitchens to pick up some treats, and Kasaksma had filled her pockets with lumps of hard sugar which she was now feeding to the Warg. Within a couple of moments, she was allowed to run her hands over the head and neck of the beast and even to scratch her behind the ears. Bardha, you old whore, I thought with a smile and walked over to them.

"She's wonderful," Kasaksma breathed, her deep dark eyes sparkling with sincere joy for the first time.

Yesterday's incident with the improvised execution of the two spies from Mordor had left a bad taste in my mouth. Not because of the execution itself – I had performed such acts countless times before – but because I had seen the horror in the eyes of my bed-warmer. I had wondered why I cared at all, but somehow I couldn't come up with any rational answer. Instead, I had become irritated that I hadn't had the opportunity to tell her about the messenger I had finally dispatched to Elrond's court. She would be good riddance too, I had thought ruefully. The sooner I could send her on her way, the better.

In the evening, I had taken her with me to the counsel about the situation with Mordor. She had been distant and uncommunicative with me personally, but at the counsel, she had spoken up about placing more systematic surveillance squads at our outer boarders. Her proposal had received great recognition from the counsel, and I had felt an unexpected surge of pride at having her at my side. When we had gone to bed, however, she had turned her back on me without a word, and this morning, she had left for her session with Sim and Yazir long before I had awoken.

I had joined them at lunchtime, determined to break the news. Though both Yazir and Sim had chattered away merrily, Kasaksma had just been sitting in silence, minding herself and not even looking at me. Then, I had cleared my throat and, raising my voice to cut through the conversation of the two warriors, I had said:

"I sent a messenger to Rivendell yesterday."

The silence had been immediate. Sim and Yazir had glared expectantly at the Elf, but she had just kept staring into her bowl. Then slowly, she had looked up at me with a sceptical expression on her face and her eyes narrow with mistrust.

"With a message to my father?" she had asked in a hard voice, and I had nodded.

"To make an exchange?"

"Yes," I had sighed resignedly.

Kasaksma had glared expressionlessly at me for a moment, and then her red lips had curled into a broad smile. She had shaken her head and snorted loudly.

"You amaze me, Defiler!" she had said, her big eyes glistening with tears of joy.

I could have slapped myself for ever wishing to get rid of her.

We had taken the rest of the afternoon off, and I had decided to introduce her to Bardha as she would probably have to ride with me on the Warg anyway when taken to the exchange with Rivendell.

"We have horses in Rivendell – strong and noble horses," she went on, burying her fingers in Bardha's white fur, "But nothing like this. In Lothlórien, we have no animals at all."

I ran my hand over the back of the beast and brushed Kasaksma's fingers with purpose. She didn't pull away from my touch.

"How long have you been living in Lothlórien?"

"From I was a toddler and until I came of age," she said with a smile, "Then on and off – some months in Rivendell, some months in Lórien."

The white Warg bounced off, and we watched her jump playfully into the snowdrifts.

"I miss my baby sister, Gwenna," Kasaksma sighed, "I used to teach her all the wondrous things I learned from the Lady of the Forest."

"Is she Elrond's offspring, too?" I asked, surprised.

Kasaksma shook her head.

"No. Her father is my mother's husband. She was married after her… after she gave birth to me. My sister is the kindest and dearest person I know. And she sings like a bird. She is the greatest treasure of my parents."

Kasaksma looked away, a shadow of sadness running across her face. I felt a sudden urge to do something special for her, and I took hold of her hand.

"Let me show you the greatest treasure of Moria. Come!"

In a few moments, we were standing in a narrow valley among the rocks. All around, the snow-clad landscape reflected the sharp winter sun coming down from a cloudless sky. The air was crisp with cold, showing our breaths as we panted after the short climb. Just ahead, nestled between two stone boulders, a circular well was lying still and calm. The only movement was in the air above the pool as it was whirled about by the rising steam.

"What is this?" Kasaksma asked with wonder in her voice.

"The Pool," I answered, "Some call it Azog's Pool. Because it's my privilege only to use it, I guess."

She gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go of it. Slowly, she walked to the edge of the well and put her fingers into the water.

"It's hot!" she exclaimed.

By then, I had thrown off my clothes and waded into the pool, splashing water on her. She laughed out loud with a tinkling sound that echoed off the rocky sides of the valley. I realised that I had never heard her – or any Elf for that matter – laugh before. It was surely a sound I could get used to, I thought, making a mental note to try to make her laugh more often.

"Aren't you coming in?" I asked, finding a good place to sit where only my head and shoulders were above the water.

"You can bet your right hand that I am!"

A moment later we were sitting side by side, soaking in the heat of the pool. I inspected her with a stolen glance through the clear water. Her body was nearly as black and blue with bruises as the first day after I had got her out of the dungeons. Yazir hadn't been treating her with kid gloves – but then again, he wasn't obliged to. In spite of all, she hadn't complained with a single word. I, on the other hand, couldn't resist poking at her Eldar pride a bit.

"I like your hair," I said teasingly.

"Shut up!" she answered dryly, leaning back against the rock and closing her eyes.

After Yazir had mutilated her hair yesterday, she had tried to hide it as best as she could. First, she had worn it in a single braid down her back. Now, it was braided in the Orcish style – like Yazir himself wore his hair – and put up in a high bun with her ivory comb. I did actually find it pretty. I sidled a bit closer to her and put my left arm around her shoulders.

"Where does it come from – this water?" she asked suddenly, looking straight into my eyes.

"Ehrm…" I said, trying to collect my thoughts, "It comes from somewhere deep below the mountain. According to the legends, there are whole rivers flowing with hot water down there. But I don't know – I've never been far enough down to see for myself. It's said that the Dwarves made pipelines of stone to direct the flow of the water to heat their halls. They used to have heat in the floors of all the chambers, can you believe that? We use it too – for washing and for laundry – but we draw it from wells on the Water Levels or from places like this where it comes up to the surface. Sometimes, I think that having all the riches of the Dwarves is just fine, but without the hot waters of Moria, we would be really badly off."

"So this is the greatest treasure of Moria, huh?"

"Indeed it is."

I put my right hand on her knee and moved it slowly up her thigh, hoping to meet no resistance. Kaskasma cleared her throat, however, and glided through the water to a new place a bit further away from me. I shook my head with a smile and stood up. I could feel her eyes all over me as I left the pool.

"D'you like what you see, _anlul_ [1]?" I asked mockingly, looking back over my shoulder.

I glimpsed her blushing cheeks just before she dived under the water, and now it was my turn to lough. I had finished dressing when she finally joined me. She stood watching me for a moment with a mischievous expression on her face. Then, she released her braids from her soaked bun and shook her head, drenching me with water.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, trying to grab her, but she scooped up her clothes swiftly and jumped away on light feet, her laughter ringing out like a thousand silver bells.

Before I had rubbed the water from my eyes, she had dressed and come a little closer again. I made another grab for her, this time succeeding in taking hold of her arm as if she had let me catch her on purpose. I don't know what got into me at that moment, but suddenly I felt an urgent and irresistible need to kiss her. Was it the way she was playing with me? Or was it some sort of panic at the thought that she would soon leave, and I would never come this close to a living Elf again? I grabbed her jaw, perhaps a bit harder than what would have been necessary. Her playful expression sobered, but it was too late to resist, and she shut her eyes in terror of what would come. Very gently, I touched my mouth to hers, making the kiss last a while and loosening my grip on her jaw. Her mouth was soft, warm and almost intoxicatingly sweet. The whole affair seemed strangely unreal, but still endlessly thrilling because of its forbidden nature. To my great astonishment, her lips reached for mine as I finally started to pull away, and I welcomed the sweet invitation, pressing my mouth to hers again, this time with more passion. I put my arms around her slim waist, pulling her closer, and her hands moved from my chest and up my neck in a timid caress. I closed my eyes and pried her soft lips apart with the tip of my tongue. Inside, she tasted like honey and sun-ripened strawberries.

The impact of her fist against my jaw stung more than I had thought – not because of the power of the hit, but because it had come so unexpectedly. She had obviously enjoyed the touch of our lips, but my tongue in her mouth had apparently crossed her limits. Now, the only taste in my mouth was from my own blood oozing from my bitten tongue.

"Back off!" she exclaimed, her eyes betraying confusion and resentment, "I'm betrothed to be married!"

I straightened up to my full height and assumed a commanding air.

"No-one hits the king of Moria and goes unpunished," I growled, making her cower before me.

I bent down and scooped up a handful of snow which I threw at her face. She was quick to ward it off, however, her laughter ringing out through the valley. Within the blink of an eye, we were chasing around the rocks and battling each other with showers of snowballs. I managed to tackle her at a bend between two boulders, and we rolled around until we were both exhausted with play and laughter. I lay on my back, panting, and Kasaksma sat astride my stomach, inspecting me with fascination. She was light as a feather. I recalled a particularly long battle between Moria and Rivendell where we had run out of rations and had been forced to eat the festering cadavers of our foes. When we had broken their bones for the marrow, we had only found air like inside the bones of birds.

"Your eyes are blue," Kasaksma said after having caught her breath.

"They've always been," I answered.

"I've always thought they were pale grey, but in this light, they have the colour of the cloudless sky. They're beautiful."

She ran her hands probingly over my chest and along my shoulders and neck. I let her explore my body from her superior position. She found my hand and pushed her soft palm against my calloused one before interlacing her fingers with mine. Then, she lifted my hand and pushed it passionately against her lips, dwelling on the kiss with closed eyes. A shockwave of pleasure ran through my body. All of a sudden, I realised how hungry I had been for a sincerely affectionate touch for all the years since the death of Bolg's mother. I knew that dwelling too long on the thought would drive me mad, and I cast my mind about to find some kind of diversion.

"This fiance of yours," I said, "Who is he?"

"A captain of Lord Elrond's," she answered dryly, shrugging, "His name is Olwain."

"How long have you been engaged?" I probed cautiously, having a strong suspicion that the Eldar followed some rather rigid traditions and rites when choosing a consort.

"For three years. My mother arranged it to 'secure my position' as she puts it. She's always been very ambitious on my behalf – and perhaps a bit nervous that I should end up as a spinster," she added sarcastically, "We're going to be married next summer."

"Is he a good kisser?"

"Maybe," Kasaksma laughed roguishly.

"Better than me?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"That's none of your business, _Kartartaugaz_ [2]!"

"Is he any good at fucking?"

"What?! How would I know?!" she exclaimed, blushing deeply.

"Well, you're the one who's going to marry him."

"Yes, but I haven't had sex with him! In Rivendell, you have to be a virgin until you marry."

"You Eldar are crazy! Isn't there anything this Allan…"

"Olwain."

"… Whatever – is good at?"

"He's a good archer, I guess," Kasaksma said after a moment of contemplation.

"A good archer. Wauw, I must say," I said with an unimpressed voice, "You bear him no affection."

"You don't know that!"

"I can see it in your eyes."

Kasaksma released my hand and looked away.

"Let's go in," she said quietly, "Or we'll catch a cold."

I watched her stand up and walk back towards the gates. I caught up with her in the corridors and scooped her up under my arm, making her shriek with laughter once more. I carried her the rest of the way to our chamber and threw her on the bed, bumping down next to her. For a while, we were just lying there, looking at each other. Then, Kasaksma said:

"If something goes wrong – at the exchange – will you rip my throat out, too?"

She must have seen the impact of her words on my face, because her eyes filled with tears. I put my arms around her and kissed her forehead fiercely, wishing I could do more for her.

"I will do everything in my power to get you home safely," I whispered, knowing that it wasn't enough.

Both of us knew that I wouldn't be able to guaranty her life. At that moment, I felt more powerless than I had felt for decades.

"I understand, _Kartartaugaz_ ," she whispered back, pressing herself against me, "I understand."

* * *

[1] My flower.

[2] Blue-Eyes/ Blue-Eyed Boy.


	11. Pipelines

**10\. Pipelines**

"Gross shit!"

Sim's strong voice cut through the outburst of a general hoot around the table and rolled through the hall, making people at the other tables look up. Yazir guffawed, spitting wine through the three holes in his dentition, and even old Morda chuckled merrily. Only Bolg remained silent, staring into his beaker of _ambor_ [1] with a bleak expression on his face. I leaned back and basked in the spotlight of attention that my story had earned me.

I had woken up sometime in the early evening hours, alone and with an erection the size of the tower of Barad-dûr. Kasaksma must have left me only moments before, because her place next to me had still been warm. She had covered me with a blanket which she had tucked meticulously in around me. I had curled into a foetal position and stuck my nose into the sheets where she had been lying, imagining them to be her soft hair. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms, not talking or caressing, just being there with each other in that fragile moment. It had been a strangely uplifting, but at the same time sad feeling, and as unreal as a dream.

I had touched myself to release the pressure from my erection, but it had been to no avail and I had decided to leave the snug confines of the warm bed and go in search of a whore. My steps had taken me directly to the washing rooms. The women doing the laundry did always have soft clean hands and a willing nature. My regular had been there; she had grabbed me by the belt and had drawn me aside to the boiling room where we could lie undisturbed among iron cauldrons and heaps of dirty clothes. She had spread her legs and pulled me close, and I had taken her without any kissing or foreplay. Afterwards, she had run her hands caressingly up my neck, calling me her king and her mighty warrior. I used to like that, but now the words had sounded hollow, and somehow her features and eyes had been all wrong. I had turned her around and taken her again, closing my eyes and imagining her skin to be smooth and white, her hair to be black and her lower back to be more narrow and muscular. Despite her loud protests, my thrusts had grown harder and more violent until, at last, the final wave of pleasure had washed through me. I had, however, found no joy in the act, and I had left her whimpering from pain on the floor without a word, knowing that I would never fuck her again.

I had gone through the rest of the evening as if wading through a thick haze. The counsel of captains had drawn up a plan on the surveillance of our borders and had been recounting the number of warriors needed for the job over a period of three months. I had only been listening with half an ear. Then, I had gone back to my chamber, but Kasaksma had not been there and I had found no solace in being alone. So, I had made up my mind to seek out the company of Bolg, Sim, Morda and Yazir. I had figured that talking with them could clear my head and bring some distraction to my mind. After the second cup of wine, the humour and absurdity of kissing an Elf had suddenly hit me, and I had decided to tell them about it.

As expected, the incident had grossed them all out, but I could see in their eyes that – like me – they thought the act to be strangely teasing, as well. As far as I knew, all of us had taken women of other races by force, but making romantic advances towards one was considered to be in a quite different league and most certainly taboo. Of course, we had all grown up listening to the tales of Beren and Lúthien, a great part of the thrill of the stories lying in the unusual, forbidden romance between two different races. We had always considered them to be just that: fictions of a fantastic and unrealistic union, never to be taken literally. In a very down-to-earth manner, kissing Kasaksma had turned this whole notion of separateness upside down.

"What was it like?" Sim continued, now in a much more hushed voice.

The company around the table fell silent and looked expectantly at me. I shrugged.

"Soft, I guess," I said with a smirk, "And warm and sweet."

"You're sick, man!" Sim said, shaking his head, "She could have bitten your tongue right off with those creepy flat teeth of hers."

Yazir rubbed his stump of an ear with a pained expression.

"I think she liked it," I said, deciding not to tell them that she had slapped me in the face a moment later, "She laughed a lot."

Actually, it dawned on me that I had liked it, too. Not just the kissing part, but the way we could finally touch each other, the way we could talk and play and laugh together – our tacit agreement never again to feel awkward, strained or afraid in each other's company. How would I ever make my mates understand?

"Isn't she a bit too small and scrawny for you?" Sim asked, slurring a bit because of the amount of _ambor_ he had consumed, "I mean, compared to Alia…"

For the first time, Bolg looked up with a glare like bolts of lightning.

"I like small women," Yazir squeaked, cutting Sim short before he would get himself into trouble.

"Shut up, Yazir," Sim went on, unaffected, "Nobody asked you. What I mean is…"

"But I do, really!" the small warrior exclaimed.

Just then, Bolg stood up, pushing his stool back with a force that knocked it over. He was fuming with rage, but he didn't say a word. We all watched him stomp away in silence.

"I shouldn't have mentioned Alia," Sim said in a low voice, looking at me with apologetic eyes.

"It's alright," I sighed, having a feeling that it really wasn't, "He just needs some fresh air."

For many years, I had felt an excruciating remorse at any mention of my late consort, but somehow today I didn't. It seemed, however, that it was only a matter of time before I would have to confront my son about this whole affair.

I went to bed alone that night. Kasaksma had been given the freedom of leaving our chamber at her own will after I had taken her out to her first lesson with Morda. I was rather nervous by the thought of her roaming Moria on her own, but my slight loss of control was made up for tenfold by the happy look in her eyes each time she returned from her small excursions. I had almost fallen asleep, when I heard the door open and close quietly. A few moments later, the Elf slipped under the covers behind me, put her arm around my chest and pushed her lips against my back, depositing a warm wet kiss between my shoulder blades.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey," I answered, taking her hand in mine and giving it a light squeeze. It had been a long time since I had felt such peace.

The next three days, the whole of Moria was on its end with preparation and excitement, resembling more an anthill than a stately kingdom. Hinds, boars and mountain goats were dragged to the kitchens, barrels of wine, liquor and ale were hoisted from the basements, and bunches of spruce branches and other evergreens were hauled from the wood-clad valleys outside our northern gates. The celebration of the Winter Solstice was always a damned big thing. Luckily, I managed to escape most of the bustle, claiming to be busy with the defences and the negotiations with Elrond and the Goblin king respectively. Kasaksma, on the other hand, threw herself right into the middle of it. Half of the time, I had no idea where she was and what she was doing.

I bumped into her and Yazir by accident one evening in the dining hall. They were sitting at a table by themselves, their heads stuck together in deep conversation. I sat down next to them with my supper.

"Where have you been?" I asked, looking them up and down, "I haven't seen you all day."

Their hands and faces were dirty and scratched as if they had been in a mud-fight with a dozen mountain trolls.

"At the Water Levels," the Elf said, stuffing a huge piece of bread into her mouth, "And further down."

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed, "You can get yourselves killed down there!"

"Don't worry," she said smugly, swallowing her food and nodding towards Yazir, "I'll look out for him."

Both of them erupted in a hearty laughter.

"That was not exactly what I meant," I growled, but couldn't stop smiling myself, "What were you doing down there?"

"We were just having a look at the old pipelines," Yazir said, "It was Kasaksma's idea."

"You were what?!"

"Listen," the Elf said eagerly, drawing a dirty folded-up piece of parchment from the bosom of her tunic and smoothing it out on the table, "The upper pipelines are in a pretty good condition; but three of the lower ones are blocked."

I looked at the parchment presented to me. There was a sketchy ink drawing which most of all resembled a random heap of straight lines. On closer inspection, however, it revealed a map of the four lowest levels with the old stone pipelines drawn in. Three blotchy crosses marked the places they were broken or blocked by rubble. Kasaksma explained the details of their explorations:

"This one, on the third level, is blocked by rocks, and two of the small side pipes are broken," she pointed at the map, her finger tracing the lines, "This one, on the fourth level, is broken along with the access bridge, and this one is blocked by a ruined wall. With a hundred workers it'll take about one month to clear up and rebuild them."

"Hold on!" I said, "You want to restore the pipelines?"

"Yes."

Kasaksma and I locked eyes, and Yazir shuddered, glancing nervously from her to me. The boldness of the Elf left me absolutely speechless.

"You'll get twenty workers," I said in a hard voice, finally regaining my wits.

"Seventy," she said without blinking.

"Fifty. And you'll deal personally with any Balrog you'll happen to disturb."

"Alright," she shrugged, returning her attention to her supper.

Yazir and I stared at each other with wide eyes, both of us flabbergasted. If this restoration project failed, it could not only end up costing me my reputation as a ruler, but also the actual lives of my subjects. If Kasaksma succeeded, however, I would go down in history as the king who had rebuilt the splendours of Moria. To my surprise, I found this was a risk I was more than willing to take.

* * *

[1] Liquor.


	12. Winter Solstice

**11\. Winter Solstice**

The Winter Solstice feast was a real crowd-magnet. To most of the people of Moria, this was the one time of the year when they would eat anything else than coarse bread and barley gruel. The huge portals between the audience hall and the dining hall had been opened up wide, and long trestle tables and benches had been put up to accommodate as many people as possible, but still some would have to sit on the floor along the spruce-clad walls. I suspected that the great number of guests was partly due to the rumours about Kasaksma's bold building project which – according to Sim – had spread like wildfire throughout Moria. Now, they all wanted to get a glimpse of the Elf who had not only managed to stay alive in their midst, but had set about to change their lives.

I let my eyes sweep over the bustling crowd, relishing in the sight of my subjects. Many of the higher officials and their consorts wore their finest gowns and were adorned with jewels fashioned from the mithril chainmail of our enemies. They shone with a cold blue light against the ruddy glow of the torches along the walls and the sparkle of gold and silver plates fetched from the treasuries for the occasion. On an improvised pedestal, Yazir and three other musicians were tuning their instruments, and at the table just below my throne, Sim and Bolg were already at their first round of dices with Morda keeping them company. A little further away, Kasaksma and her _snaga_ [1] were playing with the two children of the Goblin king. Kahrn had fetched a handful of goose feathers from the kitchens. The Elf took the feathers in her hands and, blowing gently at them, she sent them flying one by one with sparks of white light in their trails. The children watched with eyes and mouths wide open, clutching at the hem of Kasaksma's tunic. I knew these small flying lanterns were no more than Elvish tricks taught by that Forest Witch in Lothlórien, but nevertheless the sight was splendid. Soon, the whole hoard of children from the court would be standing around her.

The feast was lavish. The usual cauldron on the central hearth of the dining hall had been replaced by three spitted boars rotating slowly above the embers, each with a red apple in its mouth. On each side of the hearth, two tables were laid out with mashed turnips and sunroots, baked apples, sun-shaped pumpkin pies, roasted birds and cooked sausages, richly sprinkled with mountain thyme and sprigs of rosemary. From the kitchens, an addition of roasted chops of goat and deer were brought up, followed by plates of different nuts and sweets for the children. The sights and smells were overwhelming, making my stomach churn with hunger. I took another sip of my wine. On the occasion of the Solstice, four barrels of old South Gondor had been mulled with honey and wild anise – a steaming concoction which went right to your head.

I descended my throne when the feast began and joined my mates at the end of the nearest table. Yazir was stuffing his face with pie while nodding seriously at something Morda told him in a quiet voice. Sim and Kasaksma laughed and joked loudly, ignoring Bolg who eyed their conversation suspiciously with the grease of a lamb chop running down his chin. After serving us, Kahrn had shuffled off to the table designated for the slaves. I took the empty seat next to my son and lifted my cup to him.

"Happy Solstice, son."

"May our foes tremble, and the sun shine on our victories," he answered, toasting me with a raised cup.

I let my eyes dwell on him as he returned to his food. A couple of years ago, Bolg had been no more than a scrawny lad with limbs that were too long and a strength he couldn't quite handle. Now, he was my size and as ferocious, ruthless and stealthy as a Warg. He had his own characteristic scars now – a patched-up scull, a milky blind eye and a row of raw flesh where his lips used to be – telling about his history of battles. Though he still had a patch of dark hair on his head and a dark-grey eye, I couldn't help wondering sometimes, where the little boy who had resembled his mother so had gone.

"A battle against Mordor is inevitable," I told him, "I want you to lead the campaign when the time comes."

He looked at me, his good eye suddenly gleaming with the youthfulness appropriate for his age.

"I will not disappoint you, father," he said, quickly regaining his usual lofty attitude.

I concealed a smile behind my hand. This boundless eagerness to prove his own worth was something I recognised from myself when I had been his age. His ambition to become the best at whatever he was doing was what drove him night and day. A certain inbuilt foolhardiness and an often irrational fear of falling short in his endeavours, however, were clearly some of his mother's traits, and I would sometimes scold him because of them. I would always feel a flush of shame afterwards, though, as if I had been disrespectful to the memory of Alia. When I would be dead and gone, Moria would find a fierce and just – although hardly wise – ruler in my son.

The feast evolved quickly into a drinking party. As soon as the children were escorted back to their respective quarters, and the slaves had retired to the kitchens and the lower levels, the real debauchery began. There were drinking games, music, song and dance, and wine, ale and liquor flowed freely from the barrels that had been lined up in an adjacent chamber. A couple of hours later, only half of the guests were still going strong. By now, spirits were high. Bolg and Sim were discussing miscellaneous strategies needed to ward off the threat from Mordor over a fifth jug of mulled wine, and the Elf was being turned around in a lively reel on the dancefloor, her eyes shining with mirth like two bright stars. My eyes settled on her, my mind infatuated by her light and swift movements.

"That was the way I used to look at your mother," Morda said quietly right next to me, "Breathless."

The old sage had sidled to my side without me even noticing. Averting my eyes from the Elf, I couldn't help feeling a bit shameful at having been caught in an act of silent admiration. Often, the keen perception of the blind man surprised me more than anything.

"She was beautiful, wasn't she, my mother?" I asked hurriedly, hoping to divert the conversation.

"Not really, no," the old man answered flatly, "But she had this special kind of… presence. When I looked into her blue eyes for the first time, I just knew she was the one for me."

He turned his head and nodded towards Kasaksma, and I followed his sightless gaze. After the dance, the Elf had taken a seat next to Yazir and the other musicians.

"And she's the one for you," he added, stabbing me mercilessly through the heart with his words.

Kasaksma emptied her beaker of _ambor_ and set about teaching the musicians an Elvish song. She started to sing in Sindarin, clapping to help Yazir keep up with the rhythm. His fingers stumbled across the strings, making the Elf release a tinkling laughter. Could the old sage be right? Was it possible? An Eldar? I squirmed in my seat, not knowing what to say or do.

"Some things even a blind old fool can see," Morda sighed, gripping my shoulder with a withered hand to steady himself as he rose and walked away.

When Sim and Yazir started to make out in the far corner of the hall, I knew it was time to leave. Kasaksma caught my eyes and winked, nodding towards them with a knowing smile. We were the only ones left in the hall – at least the only ones still awake. The last of the high officials were lying across the tables, snoring with their cups still in their hands.

"Come on!" I said, tugging the Elf away through the corridors. She was walking on somewhat unsteady legs.

"Wait! I have to take a wee," she exclaimed as we passed the loos.

She waltzed in and closed the door, and I heard her singing a bawdy song very loudly in Common Tongue. I leaned against the wall with a smile. I was more than a bit tipsy myself. When she re-emerged, I swung her across my shoulders, making her gasp with delight, and carried her all the way up the stairs to our chamber. As I threw her on the bed, I lost my balance and landed clumsily on top of her.

"Are you trying to kill me?!" she laughed, wriggling under me like a worm.

I rose on my elbows and inspected her with a smirk on my lips. In this sozzled condition, she wasn't too good at pretending to be hurt.

"Yes!" I growled and started to bite the skin of her neck and shoulders playfully, making her shriek with laughter.

Soon, however, my bites turned into kisses, and her laughter subsided into low pants of pleasure. Within a few moments, we had undressed each other and were half-sitting, half-lying just taking each other in with hungry eyes. I lowered myself over her again – this time more gently – feeling my body respond to the warm touch of her soft skin. I sought to kiss her mouth, but she turned her head away and locked her arms between us to gain some distance. I didn't mind; there were so many other places I hadn't kissed her yet.

Somewhere in the back of my head, an impish voice said: "When did _you_ become so fond of sucking the face of an Eldar?"

Somewhere in the back of my head, I punched the owner of the voice so hard he would never get up again.

I caressed her small breasts, instantly turning her dark nipples hard and shapely. In all my life, I had never held a breast that I could cup in a single hand, I realised with amazement. For every one of my caresses, I could hear Kasaksma's breath becoming deeper and more ragged. I felt my manhood harden up to the task of taking her, and I let my fingers run from her knee to the birthmarks on the inside of her thigh, pressing lightly and finally gaining enough space to wedge my hips between her legs. Her mossy smell and soft dampness were almost too much to bear, and I buried my face in her hair to regain some control over my body.

" _Anstaz_ [2]!" she gasped, throwing her arms around me and arching her back to make our loins meet, all her inhibitions suddenly gone like dew in the morning sun.

She returned my kisses and caresses passionately, her hands wandering eagerly down my sides until they ended up between my legs. The inexperience of her small hands was fully offset by their appetite and curiosity, catapulting me head over heels into a way too early orgasm.

"No! No, no, no!" I wailed into her hair, pressing her body up against mine, but it was already too late, "Yes!"

Moaning and gasping, I spilt my seed on the smooth skin of her belly. For a while, I just lay there, sweaty and absolutely devastated, but paradoxically utterly happy. When I had caught my breath, I cast the Elf a sneaking glance, somewhat embarrassed that I had come while depriving her of the same pleasure. But she had already fallen asleep in my arms, snoring gently. Apparently, both of us should have refrained from drinking that final beaker of _ambor_. Of course, I could try to resume our coitus when she woke up again (not much chance of that before morning, though), or I could fuck her a little later while she slept. I decided against the latter, however, knowing from experience that I preferred women who could give me some counteraction. So, I took a corner of the covers and rubbed her belly clean, hoping that she would find no evidence of my little accident when she got up in the morning. I kissed her gently and lay down next to her, thinking that perhaps Morda was right after all.

Perhaps Kasaksma, the bastard daughter of Elrond of Rivendell, really was my _adur_.

* * *

[1] Slave.

[2] My beast.


	13. Adur

**12.** ** _Adur_**

My gaze ran quickly through the text once more. Then, I exhaled and rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand. The headache was increasing with every passing moment. Elrond's letter had been brought in this morning by an exhausted messenger. It said that if I didn't deliver his daughter back alive and unharmed within a fortnight, he would personally make sure I would regret ever being born. Wrapped up in all kinds of Elvish pleasantries, of course. As far as I had understood, the letter had been delivered by bow-shot in the dead of night, missing the head of my messenger by a few inches. All the better to make Elrond's point clear, I guess. Kasaksma's imminent departure was becoming uncomfortably real.

The door banged open, and the Elf waded in, the spiked steel braces under her boots clanking against the stone floor. She threw herself on a bench with a heavy sigh and took off her spikes, letting them fall onto the floor. I put down the parchment, hid it under a pile of notes and pretended to be working on a half-finished letter to the Goblin king. I flinched from the shock as she threw her cold arms around my shoulders from behind and pressed her icy cheek against mine.

"Where have you been?" I asked, taking hold of her frozen fingers.

"Checking up on the outer ends of the pipelines with Sim," Kasaksma said, "We saw a mountain goat – a big fat buck."

"Did you catch it?"

"I'm afraid I scared it away," she smiled, "Sim says I'm the crappiest hunter he has ever seen. What are you writing?"

"Just a letter to the king of the Goblins. He's being difficult again."

She read the letter over my shoulder with furrowed brows.

"You're threatening to kill his children!"

"Not directly."

"Are you trying to start a war?!"

She grabbed my shoulders with hard fingers and started to rub them fiercely. I winced as she touched out the tight parts.

"Your muscles are tense. Do you have a headache?"

I nodded.

"Come here, _Anzemar._ "

 _Angath, Kartartaugaz, Borlul, Anzemar_ _ **[1]**_ … Lately, I had difficulty keeping up with Kasaksma's inventive endearments. All I could manage in return was an occasional _Anvir_ or _Anlul_ [2].

On the morning after the Winter Solstice, I had awoken to the bathtub being filled with hot water by a couple of slaves. I had watched Kasaksma loosen her braids and climb into the tub, where she had been sitting with her chin on her knees, silently staring into the water. I had got up and had joined her in the bath, making the water splash over the edge as I had sat down behind her. When I had encircled her with my legs, the Elf had treated me to a weak smile.

"What's wrong?" I had asked, running my hand over her smooth back.

"Last night – did we…? Did you…?"

Her question had surprised me momentarily. Surely, if I had shagged her, she would not have been in doubt. On the other hand, being a virgin, she had no way of knowing what it would be like.

"No," I had whispered, slightly crestfallen at the memory of the missed opportunity, "…And no."

"Good," she had exhaled, leaning back against my chest with a relieved expression on her face.

Good – good?! Had she not wanted me as much as I had wanted her? Had last night's romance only been the casual carouse of two drunken fools? But of course she had been right again. What had I been thinking? Not much really, I guess, after some ten cups of mulled wine and as many beakers of liquor. If I had taken her, I would have caused more harm to her than pleasure. With her tiny frame, I was not even sure we would fit each other physically. Besides, I had no desire of calling down Elrond's wrath upon me by ravaging his daughter. However pleasant the act itself might have been for either of us at the moment, nobody would have gained from it in the end.

"Yeah," I had answered, contented.

The Elf circled me and sat astride my lap. She ran her hands along my upper arms and shoulders, massaging the hard muscles there. I sighed and closed my eyes as her hands moved on to my neck and head. Lately, she had gained some muscle weight, and the palms of her hands had become a bit calloused and hardened by her fighting sessions and excursions to the Water Levels, which I found strangely arousing.

"Have you ever seen the caves below the eastern gates?" she asked quietly, "They're amazing. With rows and rows of colourful _hoj-guri ug rumba-guri_ [3]."

"You've learned some new words again, I see," I said, raising my eyebrows.

She nodded proudly.

"Here's another one for you then – _adur_."

" _Adur_? What does that mean?"

"It means…" looking into her inquisitive eyes, I was suddenly lost for words, "You'd better ask Morda."

She gave me a long quizzical look.

"I will," she said finally with a smile, pushing a thumb along a bulging vein on my forehead, "This must be the culprit."

She leaned close and began to whisper in Sindarin, her words washing over me in what felt like soft warm waves. Immediately, I felt the pain ease. Her fingers traced the scars across my scalp and ended up caressing my ears lightly, making me moan with pleasure. She had finally found my most sensitive spot.

As she took my ears between her fingers, I felt a deep vibration rise from somewhere around my diaphragm and reverberate through my chest and throat. At first it was halting and rusty from long disuse, then it grew more steady and penetrating, setting my whole body into motion. Kasaksma leaned back and stared at me with wide eyes, holding my head at arm's length.

"Are you… purring?" she whispered, shocked.

"Don't stop," I said with a thick voice through the vibration and pulled her closer again.

She looked at me for a moment, speechless. Then, she touched her brow against mine with a smile. The last time I had been in such an intimate situation had been with Alia on the day Bolg had been born – 27 years ago. My consort had been weak from an extensive loss of blood, and all I had been able to do had been to comfort her with my purring. Now, holding the Elf tight, I shared my breath with her in what seemed like a suspended moment in time and space that I wished would never come to an end.

Just then, the door was thrown open, and Bolg stomped in with an expression of grim determination. Kasaksma and I jumped to our feet, but my son had already seen us entwined. For an awkward moment, we all stood staring at each other, dumbfounded and embarrassed.

"Have you forgotten how to knock, boy?" I growled, finally breaking the silence.

"The scouts have ambushed five raiders," Bolg reported, quickly regaining his composure, "You're needed in the court, sire."

I looked over my shoulder at Kasaksma.

"Go on," she nodded, "I'll finish the letter."

"Are you fucking her?"

Bolg's hard voice made me stop dead in my track. I stared into his good eye which was so much like his mother's. Though I had expected a confrontation, the straightforwardness of his question took me aback. Usually, my son would avoid any conflict with me, always wrapping his opinions and views up in quaint reservations and excuses that would fool no-one anyway. This time, he must feel hardly pressed to clear the air.

"Are you?" he asked again.

"It's none of your concern," I spat indifferently, determined not to let him embarrass me further.

"By all the demons of the depths, father! She's an Eldar!" Bolg exclaimed, his voice full of frustration and disgust, "If my mother could see…"

With a swift movement, I grabbed the throat of my son and pinned him hard against the stone wall of the corridor. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness and anger washed through me, making me almost lose control of myself. How dare he mention Alia to me?! Had the whelp no idea what I had gone through by losing her?

"Your mother is dead!" I managed to rasp, suddenly all my anger seeping out of me like strength from the muscles after a long and tiring battle, "You and I – we're still alive."

I released Bolg's throat, and he came away from the wall with a submissive expression on his face, frightened by my fierce reaction.

"My mother was a good woman," he said tentatively, rubbing his sore throat.

For the majority of my life, Alia had been the one person who had given me some stability, a sense of being on firm ground regardless where my adventures would take me. She had made me feel secure and at ease; she had been the still centre around which the chaos of my life had revolved.

"She was, son," I answered quietly.

Where Alia had been like the solid earth, Kasaksma was like a fresh summer breeze. With one word or act, she could make me laugh and play and dream. The Elf spurred me on, making me want to live and to cherish my life like I had never done before. She could lift me up like no-one else.

"She was," I repeated, "But so is Kasaksma – in her own special way."

* * *

[1] My Soul, Blue-Eyes, Snowdrop, My Heart.

[2] My Star / My Flower

[3] Stalactites and stalagmites.


	14. The Whore

**13\. The Whore**

"Morda?"

"Hmmm…"

The old man was standing on a short ladder by one of his many bookshelves, rearranging his vast collection of scrolls and documents. The Winter Solstice marked the start of a new year in Moria, and the first couple of weeks were spent cleaning, mending tools and clothes and clearing out the old rushes on the floors. For the sage, it meant making space for the filing of last year's official correspondences and records, this time with my help. We had sorted through every letter the king and his officials had received, and Morda placed them meticulously on their own shelf according to their sender and the time of reception.

"Has there never been peace between the Orcs of Moria and Gundabad and the Orcs of Mordor?" I asked, handing him a torn and crumpled piece of parchment which I had smoothed out as best as I could.

"Not that I know of," the old Orc said, waving a withered hand dismissively in the air, "The Orcs of Mordor have always been a bunch of uncivilised thugs. They live in small marauding bands with no affection for anyone but themselves. They have no alliances and no honour. They even fight among themselves. All they want is to conquer and to destroy."

Two days ago, the scouts at the south-eastern borders of Moria had surrounded and killed five raiders, and there had been an emergency council on the increasingly grave situation. I had been sitting at Azog's side, watching the panic rise in the eyes of the captains and high officials in silence. They had all had their own guesses at what might be going on behind the mountains of Morgai and how Moria should react to these stirrings. The Orcs of Mordor would want to conquer more lands, preferably Orcish lands, some had ventured, and we should therefore act swiftly and destroy them before they left their nest in larger numbers. No, others had said, the bands of Mordor posed no serious threat to Moria, and we should leave them be. The discussion had become shriller and shriller until at last Azog had stood up, calling for silence.

"We need a clearer picture," he had said, "Bolg, gather three warriors and find out what's going on in Mordor."

Bolg had jumped to his feet and had inclined his head to his father. Leaving the counsel, he had cast me a baleful glance, and I had squirmed unwillingly in my seat. Azog's son had always avoided my company, but after having seen me in his father's arms earlier that day, his resentment of me had become palpable. I didn't blame him, really. The relationship between Azog and me had intensified so quickly during the last few weeks that even I grew dizzy by the thought of it. No wonder the lad had got the impression that we were more intimate than was really the case. Perhaps he even thought I was replacing his mother in some twisted way? I wondered if he was right. The exact nature of Azog's bond with Bolg's late mother kept eluding me, but I could feel that the king of Moria had taken to me unconditionally. And I would be deluding myself if I said that I hadn't developed a strong affection for him in return. In truth, Azog's sincerity, patience and unfaltering kindness towards me had won my heart in spite of him being an Orc and an enemy of my own people.

"They might have been warring internally for years," I told Morda, shaking my head to clear it, "But something is stirring in Mordor now. The raids are becoming larger and more frequent by the week, maybe even more organised. I suspect we'll have to find a new strategy if we want to…"

I stopped myself abruptly before I could finish the sentence, biting my lips. Morda turned towards me with an expression of anticipation on his eyeless face. When had I started to refer to Moria as 'we'? My prolonged stay here was getting at me in more than one way.

"I mean…" I stammered, "Never mind."

Morda turned to his bookshelf again, an ill-hidden smirk curling his thin lips. We worked on in silence for a while, the only sound in the chamber being the scratching of dry parchment on parchment as the scrolls were piled on top of each other. My mind turned to Azog again, and I imagined his big warm hand moving up my back, his eager mouth on my neck, his sweet smell of sweat and mountain thyme in my nostrils. Thinking back on our unfulfilled romance on the night of the Winter Solstice still sent shivers down my spine. The fact that the incident had not got out of control had been due to mere chance; in spite of my tender feelings for my pale giant, I couldn't let a situation like that happen again.

"Morda?"

"Yes, my child?"

"A couple of days ago, Azog called me _adur_."

"Did he now?" the sage asked, not sounding surprised at all, which annoyed me a bit.

"What does it mean? _Adur_?" I said, trying to prompt an explanation.

Slowly and with a heavy sigh, the old Orc crawled down from his ladder, propped it up against one of the other shelves and crawled up again. After a moment of rummaging, he found an ancient leather-bound volume with scorch marks along its edges and handed it to me.

"Page 1098 – The Ballad of Comnar and Dúrin," Morda said, citing from the text, " _When skies are leaden, and birds fly from their nest, adur by adur's side is put to rest…_ "

I sat down by the table and opened the book to find the ballad. The pages were thin and worn, filled with Orcish text in a minuscule and neat handwriting.

" _Adur_ is an ancient word dating back to the creation of the Orcish language – perhaps even to the beginning of time itself," the sage continued, "It means 'destiny' or 'fate'. You might have noticed that we don't have any words for 'friend', 'love' or 'lover' – it's all encompassed in this one word, but an _adur_ is much more than that. An _adur_ is a person who defines your life and ideally your death, too, a kind of soulmate. He or she is not necessarily of the opposite sex, neither is he or she necessarily a friend, nor even of your own race. Comnar, who was one of the chieftains responsible for the First Sacking of Gundabad, found his _adur_ in the person of the Dwarf king Dúrin. They were both genius military minds with great regard for each other. They ended their days killing each other on the battlefield. Most people are not that fortunate – the majority go through life without ever finding their _adur_ , and perhaps only a few out of 100.000 are blessed enough to have their _adur_ as their consort."

Suddenly, the old sage seemed to gain a distant look on his face, and his voice trailed off to nothingness.

"Azog's mother was your _adur_ , wasn't she?" I asked, everything starting to make sense to me now, "That's why you agreed to stay and raise her son after her death."

"Yes," Morda sighed.

"But she was never your consort?"

"No. I lived for her, and I breathed for her," the old man said with a sudden passion, "And I would have suffered and died for her, too, if I had been given the chance. Raising Azog was the only thing that kept me from following her into the land of the dead."

I sat contemplating his words in silence for a moment, not knowing how I should feel about the whole affair. Should I feel flattered by being the _adur_ of the king of Moria? Or should I rather feel uneasy by the immense trust he was obviously investing in me? How would all this affect my relationship with my family, my future husband, my own people in general? My mind told me that such a bond between Azog and me would be folly, but my heart soared with joy and pride, feeling that indeed we were meant for each other. He not only teased all my senses, but he challenged and completed me intellectually and filled my life with mirth, which was much more than I could ever hope for in another person.

I was still brooding on the pros and cons on my way back to our bedchamber. As soon as I had changed into something warmer, I would be able to join the workers on the lower levels, who were supervised by Yazir in my absence. I stumbled across Kahrn on the stone steps leading to the chamber, he being on his way down. He tripped nervously in front of me, not knowing which way to go around me.

"Is your master there?" I asked.

"He… ehm…" the Goblin hesitated. He seemed more anxious than usual.

I lifted an eyebrow inquisitively. What was wrong with him?

"He…" Kahrn repeated in his squeaky voice, "Don't go up there! Please!"

What was he on about? Was there something wrong? I quickened my steps up the stone stairway, passing the little slave hastily. He called out to me and tried to grab hold of the hem of my tunic, but I was already past him, taking two steps at a time on light feet. When I was about halfway, I heard the noise from the chamber. First, it was the sound of a man grunting and sighing – unmistakably Azog's voice. Then, it was joined by the groans and shrieks of a woman. They sounded like two wild animals in combat.

Opening the door and stepping into the chamber, the first thing that met my eyes was a heap of clothes on the floor. Then my gaze moved on to the foot of the bed, where half of the bedclothes were scattered around a knocked-over bench. On the bed, Azog was kneeling, naked, sweaty and loud, shagging an equally naked Orc woman from behind. The sight blurred before my eyes, and I had to lean against the doorframe to prevent myself from passing out. He is fucking a whore, was all that went through my head, a whore in the bed – in _our_ bed! He is rutting with a whore in our bed like a bloody beast!

I've only had precious little contact with female Orcs during my stay in Moria. I had seen them in the kitchens and the laundry and in the dining hall at suppertime. But I had never spoken with any of them. Usually, they glared at me with suspiciously narrowed eyes and hurried out of my way whenever they saw me approaching. Kahrn said that they considered me to be an enchantress, a dangerous creature who infested their home like a vermin and spellbound their men. I had always laughed at this, thinking that at least their fear of me would prevent them from doing me any harm. I had never expected to be hurled into a confrontation with one of them.

I slammed the door behind me, making the two Orcs jump with surprise. Looking into their eyes, I could feel my nausea and disgust turn into pure fury. The palms of my hands became hot and wet, and I felt my cheeks blush with anger. Azog must have sensed my rage immediately, because he withdrew quickly from the whore and stood dumbly by the bed, staring at me. The woman was still lying on the bed, panting from her exercise. I pointed at her with a trembling finger.

" _Lat! Jashat!_ [1]" I managed in a menacing whisper.

She crawled off the bed, collected her clothes and scurried towards the door. When she passed me, she spat on the floor at my feet.

" _Shatraug_ [2]!" she hissed through gritted teeth, slamming the door as she exited.

I turned towards Azog who was still standing as paralysed in the corner, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

"She… ehm… she was just going to change the bedclothes…" he mumbled in a low voice.

I had seen him naked hundreds of times in more or less aroused states, but now the foolishness of his half-erect manhood infuriated me even more. Had all his affection for me just been a show? A lie I had been more than willing to believe? And all that bullshit about me being his _adur_ – had he no shame? Such a lecherous whore! How dare he even speak to me?! I grabbed a piece of cloth and threw it hard at him.

" _Mushof lat_![3]" I rasped, silencing him immediately.

What happened next, I can't recall. The only thing I remember is walking down dimly lit corridors with a bundle of my sparse possessions under my arm, not really knowing where I was going. From time to time, a guard, a _snaga_ _ **[4]**_ or a laundry maid came into my field of vision, but they all shied away from me when they saw my tear-soaked face. I don't know how long I wandered aimlessly through the darkness of the underground tunnels, but suddenly I stood in front of Morda's door, knowing that I had found my sanctuary. Here, not even the king of Moria would dare to disturb me.

* * *

[1] You! Out!

[2] Witch.

[3] Cover yourself!

[4] Slave.


End file.
